


Lessons in Recreational Drug Use

by Amodelofefficiency



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-26 17:20:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 68,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amodelofefficiency/pseuds/Amodelofefficiency
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not planned. But then again she isn't sure what she expected when she agreed to eat those cookies. First on her list had been hearing the rest of his message, and when his request had been that she join him, possibly in the hope that neither of them would remember, she'd thought very little beyond what she wanted to know or what the consequences might reap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lessons in Recreational Drug Use

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what to write here. But I felt like I needed one. I've finally made it over from FF.Net!
> 
> Umm...I've had this in mind for a long time? And yes, there's much more to come? Please enjoy? Gosh, usually I have paragraphs that I want to gush at the beginning of a story, but this one has nothing. Enjoy!

_She falls pregnant._

_It's not planned. But then again she isn't sure what she expected when she agreed to eat those cookies. First on her list had been hearing the rest of his message, and when his request had been that she join him, possibly in the hope that neither of them would remember, she'd thought very little beyond what she wanted to know or what the consequences might reap._

_Two pale pink lines, apparently. And isn't that a lesson in recreational drug use._

* * *

 

It's bordering on midnight and Will is on the couch, feet propped on the coffee table scattered with yesterdays newspaper whilst  _Rosalie_  plays on the screen before him.

Outside the night is cool and crisp, the wind echoes around the sides of high-rise buildings and whistles downs lonesome alleyways. It was raining earlier in the evening when Will was escorted home by Lonny, but the night has cleared and now the only trace is the sharp hint of moisture in the air and underfoot. Will would have the glass doors open, inviting the fresh smell into the apartment, if it weren't for the prevailing winds that threaten to blow his papers and books from pillar to post.

He has a glass of wine tangled in his finger and his arm hangs off the side of the couch. The movie is ridiculous, but he'd felt like an escape into fantasy, so his eyes flicker hazily between the characters on the screen as they fight the need to slip closed. He's reached the mellowed out point of the evening and he's enjoying the spacey feeling the wine has left at the back of his head and down his bones.

Work has been busy. Insanely busy. Ever since TMI's involvement in phone hacking had been uncovered he's been teetering on the brink of exhaustion.

It's not just that he has that knowledge – now he has the leverage to push what he and Mackenzie have been working towards for nearly two years – a news program that equips the nation to make informed, important decisions. The pair have spent the past three months battering his mission to civilize into the brains of everyone who walks through the newsroom, and for the past week he's been doing it whilst Mackenzie slowly succumbs to an evil bought of the flu.

It's one thing to work himself towards exhaustion with her by his side; another entirely to do it without her. It feels a bit like his right arm has been cut off. Like he's unbalanced, unable to walk. She'd called in sick earlier in the morning so he'd spent the day putting the program together himself, and even though it had been Don talking in his ear between eight and nine, it had felt wrong somehow – unnatural – leaving him cranky and tired and desperately in need of an evening at home with his alcohol and musicals.

He's entirely intent on falling asleep with his head tipped back on the couch, but there is a knock at the door just as the clock strikes midnight and the irony of that isn't lost on him. He spends a good second glaring at his watch, annoyed. It's like some messed up Cinderella story – the clock strikes midnight and just as he wants to be left alone someone comes to interrupt his peace and quiet.

He stands and ambles towards the door, wine still in hand and a scowl etched on his face. "You better not have a glass slipper –" he begins, but then Mackenzie is on the other side and she looks about half her normal size, engulfed in a large jumper and shivering on his doorstep.

"It's midnight, Mackenzie," he tells her softly, reaching out a hand to tug her inside when it looks like she won't be moving without him.

She nods without speaking and trails into the apartment. Her hair is swept up in a ponytail and slight wisps have fallen out in the strong winds. Will flexes his hand by his side to stop from reaching towards her, gripping the stem of his wine glass in the other.

"Are you feeling any better?" he asks, as they move towards his couch.

Mackenzie falls into a clump on the left side, legs curling up beneath her, and it's times like this that Will really wishes he'd bought another apartment sometime in the past five years.

There's an image so clear, so well refined and visited, in his memory of a million different Mackenzie's on different nights curled in the corner of his lounge. She'd claimed that spot long ago, and Will has always been loathe to sit there since – on cold nights she would tuck her feet underneath her body, and on warm ones she would starfish out.

"I'm sorry to barge in on you," she murmurs, and it's the first thing she's said since arriving. The arms of her jumper are too long and she's curled her fingers in the roll of fabric to keep them warm. It's such a small thing, but Will is smitten by it. He's endlessly fascinated by her presence – seven years of knowing her and she still manages to make him feel like a five year old mesmorised by the shining jewels in the shop.

She still hasn't answered his question, and Will is still standing awkwardly by her side, so he lowers himself onto the opposite end of the couch – the left side, always his side – and like muscle memory he turns slightly towards her; if it weren't for the wine he would swear her shoulders sway towards him too.

"Mackenzie?" he prods, as she's staring past him at the television screen. She gets an odd look on her face, a slight crinkle in her forehead, and it takes Will a second to realise why.

"Rosalie," he tells her, and she smiles softly in recognition.

"Do you watch anything besides musicals?" she asks and Will smiles. He likes her teasing him; he's missed it. There was once a time when she'd spend whole afternoons whispering teasing, little remarks in his ear.

"Sometimes I branch out and watch cartoons."

She laughs shortly and then pauses, sucking in a deep breath. Will leans towards her and puts a hand on her shoulder, steadying her swaying. "Are you sure you should be here?"

She turns to him sharply and then he realises what that sounded like, "Only you're sick, are you sure you should be out?"

"Too late now," she murmurs. "Anyway, it's not the flu."

Will pauses. "You've been to the doctor?" he asks.

But Mackenzie seems intent on watching the screen on the wall and not answering. He gets up slowly, walking towards the kitchen. "Would you like a drink?"

She makes a noncommittal sound so Will turns back, stopping dead as she looks up at him, all round eyes and flushed cheeks and the careful lilt of her voice whispering, "I'm pregnant," before he's even finished the question.

"Would you like water or –"

_What?_

* * *

 

Will falls silent, swallowing around the half formed words he was about to finish, his mouth open and his eyes wide as Mackenzie sits awkwardly before him. He's leant against the doorframe and she's hidden in the corner of the couch; she slips her eyes shut as Will continues to gape at her, completely thrown and unable to form a sentence if his life depended on it.

"Is it -?"

"Yes" she cuts in, crisp and clear and as British as she'll ever be.

He sighs deeply. He really needs to stop with the drugs. They lead to bad things – women with guns and almost getting fired and knocking up his ex-girlfriend...

Will brings a hand to his forehead and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and pointer, squeezing his eyes shut. He breathes out and when he opens them Mackenzie is staring back at him, her own brown eyes wide and innocent and clearly scared shitless.

For some reason he feels like an ass.

Is he supposed to feel guilty? After all it takes two to tango and create a child (and he's steadfastly ignoring the part of this conversation that leads to the fact that they've  _created a child)._

Mackenzie is quiet at her end of the lounge and she does this little shuffle, curling herself into a tight ball - Will can't help but want to pull her towards him and into the tight circle of his arms. He abstains however; his arms feel like lead and it's taking all his will power to just remain upright. A baby, he thinks.  _A Baby._

What on earth is either one of them going to do with a baby?

What will they do about work? Will she stop being his EP? Because he's finally gotten used to the flutter of his heart every time she whispers something in his ear or turns towards him across the newsroom and he really doesn't want to have to break in a new executive producer.

Would it be tactless of him to beg her not to leave?

Probably.

He should probably comment on this new development as well.

He wants to ask how long, because that's usually how these scenes go in the movies, but he knows exactly how long it's been since they last slept together. One month, 27 days and a few hours, give or take. Meaning she's almost two months pregnant. Meaning in seven months...

He needs to sit down.

Will lands heavily on the couch as Mackenzie curls closer into herself, pushing her fingers into the curl of her jumper and wrapping her arms around her knees. Will glances up at her, and there's a moment of silence – a quiet terror that passes between them – because they've done something irreversible now, they're etched in each others body and soul.

"Wow," Will finally settles on, and he thinks perhaps he hasn't completely messed up. His voice is low and breathy, uncertain, and Mackenzie's nose twitches when she sniffles. He watches the delicate curve of her neck expand as she breathes and the gentle flush that's spreading across the apple of her cheek.

Little things that show she's alive and present before him. He wonders if their child will share those?

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, and the apology shocks him.

"Why?"

She pauses, clenching her fist in her jumper. "I don't know. I just feel like I should be apologising," and now she smiles. It's barely there and flitters across her face for a brief second, but Will chases it, wanting the lost look in her eyes gone and replaced with some sense of reassurance.

"Well, then I'm sorry too. Split the blame half way?"

She snorts and then makes a face, nodding. Will can feel the adrenaline slowly seeping through his system, meaning he's sure to crash sometime around morning, but for now he wants her to know they'll figure this out – that he's not going to walk out on her; that they'll make it through this.

She tilts her head to the side, watching him closely, and now he's a little scared.

"Forty/sixty," she tells him, and he crinkles his brow. "You were the one who requested I join you in the cookies," she reminds. "So maybe it's forty/sixty."

Will chuckles, slightly taken back. It's like that afternoon in his office all over again, when she'd requested only 98% of the blame for their breakup. She's an enigma, is Mackenzie McHale. One moment she's delicate as a flower and likely to break and the next she's powering through life like a steam train, knocking the breath from his body and the sense from his brain.

And maybe he loves her a little more because of it.

"What do you want to do?" he asks after a beat, because whilst he may not be ready to think about actually having a child, he needs to know what her plans are for the next few months.

Are they going to talk about this? Are they going to tell others? Is Will a part of these decisions - because he thinks despite everything – despite his feelings about fathers and his steadfast denial of everything at the moment – that he'll eventually reach a stage where he wants to be a part of this child's life. And is that even an option?

Mackenzie draws a deep breath and then shrugs, her smile wavering. "I have an appointment with a doctor on Wednesday morning. I don't know much more than that. But I'm not telling anyone, not yet."

Will nods quickly. Apart from the fact that this whole situation is like some messed up soap plot line, there's also the fact that neither of them is particularly young. Things happen, he understands that; he's read the statistics on pregnancy for women over the age of 35.

"Okay," he tells her, and now he does reach out, because Mackenzie looks liable to collapse forward any moment and the dark smudges around her eyes are rimmed with tears.

"Come here," he murmurs, and pulls her to his chest.

* * *

It's quiet in the apartment, the television has been muted, and Will sits rocking Mackenzie as she curls further into his arms. She's warm to hold and he can feel the slide of tears down her cheeks, but he thinks that this moment is a good one.

She chose to come to him. She chose to tell him. She could have kept this a secret but instead she's trusted him and included him because this is just as much his mess as it is hers. She just has to live with nine months of quirks and consequences on top of it. And doesn't that explain what she'd told them all was the flu.

He chuckles and the vibrations shoot down her spine, tingling when he presses a kiss to her forehead.

"It's going to be all right," he whispers. "We'll be all right."

And she's always believed him blindly.


	2. The First Five Days Will Kill You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, so it appears I let this get mushy. I'm trying to avoid too much mush. But I think Will would be mushy as well as petrified... and they still have a long way to go.

_Mackenzie wakes on Saturday morning with the heavy set of blankets over her body and the warm press of a mattress under her cheek._

_The bright New York horizon is spread before her out the windows, and a glance at the bedside table tells her it's only 7 o'clock. She stretches against the crisp sheets and thinks of waking in this bedroom years earlier – always as the sun rose, because Will doesn't believe in vertical blinds._

_It's soothing, but she misses the warm weight of Will resting up against her side; an arm slung over her stomach._

_She's pretty sure that if she got up she'd find him asleep on the lounge._

* * *

 

He sleeps on the lounge because it's easier.

He's never claimed to be courageous; people just keep giving him that title. They mistake intellect, a short fuse and a somewhat inconsistent morality for strength and valor. But he's not a  _strong_ person – he scares fucking easily; and right now he's about as scared as he's ever been.

That's why on Friday night when Mackenzie had fallen asleep pressed to his chest, he'd spent a good ten minutes debating the merits of falling back against the couch with her, and then had picked her up (so light and lithe in his arms) to carry her into his bedroom.

On Saturday morning she'd shuffled sleepily into his kitchen. He pressed a cup of coffee into her hands without thinking, because that had worked on the morning almost two months ago, and then startled when she turned and poured it straight down the sink.

She hadn't said a word, just reached up to take a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water, sipping it delicately without turning to face him, and Will had had no idea how to deal with the silence.

It wasn't awkward, it was just there. And Will had wanted to shoot the moron who ever suggested things would look better in the morning.

Instead he walked out of the kitchen and into his bathroom to shower.

Minutes later he'd gotten out and wandered back towards his bedroom, a towel slung low around his hip because sometimes he's an idiot who likes to tempt fate and if the towel slipped, well, at least she might have said something – but she was gone from the apartment with only her empty mug and glass sitting by the sink.

Will had spent his Saturday with a glass of scotch and  _The Great Escape_  playing on repeat, all the while considering ringing her to enquire what the fuck they're going to do next.

* * *

He still doesn't know what they're doing, but at least he's certain her silence means she's just as lost as he is.

She doesn't call him on the Sunday, and on Monday morning when he arrives at work early she's already sitting in her office, greeting him with a smile and an enquiry about his weekend in the same cheery voice she'd been using months ago at the hospital. Will fights the urge to pinch himself.

Has he walked into an alternate universe? Perhaps if he clicks his heels three times and begs real nice he'll wake up and find that Friday night was a dream.

"It was fine," he tells her, smiling tightly, stepping fully into her office. He shuts the door behind him because she had asked that they keep this private; he just hadn't realized that meant they weren't going to acknowledge it at all.

He struggles to find something to say now that they're alone, finally settling on "How are you feeling?" and wincing when she flinches slightly.

"I'm fine. It's been a good morning so far."

He crinkles his brow but then thinks,  _Oh, morning sickness. So that's really a thing._ And then, _at least she's talking._

"Was it bad last week?"

He's hovering awkwardly by her door so he steps forward and seats himself before her desk. Mackenzie sits up straighter but seems to settle; she shakes her head imperceptibly.

"Not terrible, but not the nicest way to wake up."

Again he wants to say he's sorry. Sometimes it feels like they both spend their days apologizing for fucking up the others life.

"I tried calling you on the weekend," he tells her, but then remembers that he never worked up the courage to do so. He flounders for a second, a bashful flush settling on his cheeks, and Mackenzie smiles knowingly at him.

"Obviously I never did, though," he finally murmurs.

She watches him carefully a moment, but then – as if letting him off the hook – she tells him, "I did the same. I wasn't sure what to say."

"No."

 _We've never been in this situation before_ , Will thinks.

There's always been someone to blame for their problems. Whether it be Will's temper or Mackenzie's utter deterrence to consequences; her obvious betrayal or Will's time spent punishing her.

Now, however; well, they've both fucked up, but at the same time he doesn't feel like they've made a complete mess.

There's a small niggling sensation in his chest that escapes whenever he stops and lets himself  _feel_  about the situation. Because this isn't something they can fix, or make go away, but at the end of the day they've created something  _incredible._

A child. They've created a child.

"Mackenzie we're having a baby," he tells her, and his voice wavers with awe at the end.

She's silent a moment, avoiding his eye, with her gaze settled on her lap. It takes him a second to realise what she's doing, but she has a hand resting over her stomach, and Will feels both grounded to the spot and floating a million miles away at the thought that their child is there, under her hands.

Seven months. He's still absolutely petrified.

Mackenzie glances up and smiles at him – a full, honest smile that quivers with fear and Will reaches a hand across the desk to grasp hers. It trembles under his fingers but he squeezes tight and she seems to take comfort in it.

"We're having a baby," she murmurs back to him; looks to say something else, but then Jim steps through the door talking, startles only when he notices Will there.

The moment is lost in the split second it takes for Mackenzie to shift her hand.

* * *

He catches her attention in the newsroom later that afternoon by laying a hand on her shoulder and squeezing delicately.

It's something they used to do early on in their relationship – they tried so hard to be professional in front of the staff so Will had started pressing his fingers into her waist and shoulder and the curve of her spine in passing. At first it had been a way to catch her attention, then a  _good morning_ , or a  _good afternoon_ , and soon it had been a way to say  _I've missed you_ , or  _you look beautiful_ , or  _will you follow me into my office please because I really need to kiss you_.

He'd avoided touching her for as long as possible when she returned, but slowly it has slipped back into their manner. He squeezes her shoulder when he wants to talk to her in private, or needs her time, and lately it's become a way to say  _thank you,_ or  _that show was good_ or even _, we're getting there._

Today, perhaps, he just needs to feel her close because now their lives are entangled.

She follows him without question into his office, clutching her portfolio tight to her chest. She takes the seat opposite him when he sits and then there is a moment of silence. He's getting rather used to their silence.

"Sloan wants to lead with the debt ceiling," he starts.

"Sloan always wants to lead with the debt ceiling," Mackenzie mutters. "She's been agitated since August. And why is she telling you now, not me? She's supposed to be  _my_ person."

Will ponders it a moment; "I don't yell at her?" he throws back.

"Neither do I!" she pauses, "Most of the time. Sometimes I get a little annoyed. But you try fitting everything into 42 minutes!" she leans back and crosses her arms indignantly.

"I also understand what she's talking about."

"Shut up Will," Mackenzie runs a hand across her cheek and then smiles boldly. "Was that all?"

"No."

"I'm really not in the mood Will."

"To discuss this?" he gestures vaguely between them.

"To discuss anything! And there's nothing to discuss. I don't know any more than I did on Friday night and when I do know more I'll tell you. If you want to know."

"I do," he nods emphatically.

"Good."

She huffs gently and then leans back, running her hands through her hair. It's out today and wisps softly at the end, curling towards her cheeks and framing her face. She looks pretty; and that isn't a way Will would normally describe her.

Usually, in the privacy of his mind, he's much more verbose. She's beautiful, yes, breathtaking, definitely; but there's a softer meaning to pretty that makes him think of warm summer evenings and chasing butterflies, and the rosy hint of colour in her cheeks today reminds him of both.

It's not hard to imagine a daughter, or even a son, with her soft waves of hair and clear eyes.

"I do want to know Mackenzie," he presses, because he thinks it's important. He wants her to know that he's in this as much as she is, even if he's loath to think about it beyond pregnancy.

Pregnancy he thinks he can deal with in an abstract way. It doesn't affect him, really, because he's not the one with a baby growing within him.

But a child is his. A child makes him a parent and that's a full time job that he can't skip out on, or retire from – and he doesn't want to think about that three days into knowing it.

"Have you started your script?" she asks, nodding towards his computer. Will shrugs indifferently and then nods.

"I've thought about it."

She makes a face. "I'll leave you to it. Please stick to what we discussed this morning. I know Sloan can be persuasive, but it's important that we start with West Virginia because –"

"Election Day. I know."

He nods, smiling. She rolls her eyes at him.

"Sometimes I'm not so sure you do know what you're doing," she tells him. "You're a lawyer and a News Anchor Will, you're trained to evade and pretend."

Sometimes she knows him so well it hurts.

* * *

 

"You look pensive. It's worrying," Charlie tells him following the broadcast. He has a bottle of scotch resting in the crook of his elbow and Will accepts the ACN mug without question.

"It's been a long week," he tells the older man.

Charlie makes a face. "It's Monday, kiddo."

"Exactly."

He sips delicately at his drink.

They sit in silence, watching the camera operator and technicians clean up the studio. Will relishes the burn down his throat and the moment of calm Charlie affords him.

"Can you tell me?"

"Not yet," he sighs. "But I will."

"Okay."

Charlie gets up, patting him on the shoulder. "You know where to find me."

* * *

 

On Monday evening Will goes to bed early because he'd spent all weekend staring at his television screen. It's a good idea initially because he's exhausted, and he's half asleep by the time his head hits the pillow, but then he wakes at 4 in the morning and can't get back to sleep.

His body feels tight, like the muscles are stretched and they ache beneath his skin. He's stressed and uncertain and they're two feelings he hates living with. He knows, intellectually, that it's perfectly normal to feel like this, but he can't shake the feeling that there's something more and it's eating at his sanity.

He trudges into his kitchen and pulls the milk from the side door, taking the cereal from his pantry and then a bowl from the cupboard. He's been a fan of early morning cereal ever since he was a little boy.

Sometimes his brother would join him and they would hide under the dining room table, sipping the last of the milk from their bowls until they had milk moustaches across their lips.

Will pauses with his spoon halfway to his mouth, swallowing the final mouthful of cereal and then, glancing around the room surreptitiously, brings it up to his mouth to drink the milk.

He sets the bowl down on the table and grins to himself in the dark.

By the time the sun has risen over New York he has an old photo album spread before him on the coffee table and is sifting through it relentlessly, searching for a photo that he's only half sure exists, and the memory that comes along with it.

He pauses; fingers poised over the fading curls of paper, and then lifts the photograph delicately from its hold.

A young William McAvoy, aged three, with his legs tucked deftly beneath his bottom and a pillow resting across his thighs sits before him. Snuggled in the crook of his arms and dwarfed by his frame is a baby, barely hours old; his little sister Annie.

One of his first memories is holding her close in the early hours of the morning. His mother had been asleep in the room down the hall and he's sure his father was hovering nearby. He's doesn't know who took the photo, perhaps one of his aunts; there were always so many of them shuffling through his house in the early years.

Four children in seven years was no easy task, and as the eldest it had been up to Will as much as anybody to be in charge of the others.

After Annie had been Michael and after Michael, Claire. There had been a fifth child, another boy, and Will can remember coming home from school with Annie lagging behind him, only to find the youngest two with wide eyes at the dining table and no adults in the house. He'd made them a late lunch, because Ma and Pa had left before they'd eaten, and as the four of them had sat chewing on cheese sandwiches his Aunt Catherine had come blustering through the front door.

Apparently there wasn't to be another brother.

Will can still remember his mother's vacant eyes and his father's distant rage.

Now, he runs a finger across the blurry crown of Annie's head and tries to remember how fragile she had felt in his arms; like fine china, he thinks. That's how his father had described it.

He picks up his phone without thinking and only curses himself when the line connects and Mackenzie's soft voice answers, muzzy with sleep.

"Hello?"

He pinches the bridge of his nose, annoyed with himself. "I'm sorry to wake you."

"It's okay, I was already up."

Will doesn't believe her, but is grateful for her words.

"I just wanted to...I want," he pauses, swallowing, and hears Mackenzie sigh down the line.

"Will. I'm terrified," she tells him. "I don't know what I'm doing and I'd never even really thought about having children before this. Before you," she corrects.

"Me too," he adds. "But are you happy about this?" he asks, and maybe that's what's been bothering him these past few days; why his skin feels like a livewire in a storm. He knows all the bad and uncertain feelings, but he doesn't know any of the good ones.

"I think I am," she tells him.

Will feels his shoulders fall and his breath relax and the pounding in his ears subside.

"Me too."

* * *

 

On Wednesday morning Mackenzie isn't at work and it takes Will a moment to realise why.

He feels funny the whole way through the morning meeting, even though Jim takes charge, and by the time the team have scattered to their desks leaving Will with a report on illegal immigrants to sift through and a promise to listen to Neal's proposal, the tremor that had lessened after their early morning phone call has returned.

There's a soft knock on his door around midday and Will calls the person in without glancing up. He only notices the silence, and then Mackenzie's presence, as she lowers herself into a chair.

"We need to talk about this," she says, and he feels his blood run cold.

He nods.

"I don't want to tell anyone yet, but you know that."

"Yes," he agrees.

"Are we telling them you're the father?"

It's the first time anyone's referred to him as such and it hits him for the first time then. He's a father. He has a child.  _Wow._

"I'd like that," he finds himself telling her. He also finds it's the truth. Her smile, when it comes, it true and bright, tempered only as she bites her lip.

"Listen, Mackenzie," he leans forward; the door is closed but he wants this conversation to be theirs and no one else's.

"I don't know what this means for us," and she nods her head in agreement, "And I'm not ready to even think about what's going to happen in seven months. But I'm not going to run away from you."

"I know," she tells him, smiling beautifully.

She reaches beside her and it's only now that Will realizes she came into the room with an envelope. She places it on his desk, sliding it across to him.

"I know you said you weren't ready to think about seven months from now, but would you like to see what it looks like now?" she questions, slightly teasing.

Will fixes her with a glare and then picks up the image. He can't make heads nor tails of it, but he can feel Mackenzie's eyes on him. Ever so slowly she stands and edges around his desk until she's perched beside him.

"That's the head," she points out, and Will makes a funny noise of astonishment, surprising himself.

"How big?" he asks roughly, and Mackenzie giggles.

"About the size of a kidney bean."

He snorts. "We made a kidney bean?"

"It will grow," she tells him sternly.

Will thinks, in the small locked off part of his brain that isn't freaking out, that he's never heard anything sound so wonderful.

"Apparently it has fingers and toes and only a little webbing between them, so it's beginning to look less like a frog. It's also losing its tail."

"It had a tail?" Will glances up at her; can't help but grinning.

So sue him, he's holding the first picture of his child in his hands. He's allowed to feel overwhelmed.

"Its brain is developing, soon it will start creating neural pathways, and its lungs are also developing."

Mackenzie's voice is hushed, awe filled and tinged with excitement. Her eyes are bright and her lips are cherry red and Will can't help but watch her as she whispers.

For the first time in five days he relaxes and thinks,  _we'll be okay_.


	3. With The Dawn of Redeeming Grace, Part 1

_She dreams of Christmas and of Midnight Mass and of being frozen to her fingertips at the back of church some years ago._

_Candles flicker in the corner of her vision and everything is hazy and distorted and oversaturated in a way that only dreams can be; the smell of incense burns down her throat and she has to squint to see before her. People are pressed in tight, bundled in their winter coats and muzzy with sleep in the early morning. She's jostled from side to side as they stand and only the steady warmth of a strong arm around her middle keeps her from toppling forwards._

" _Steady now," a voice rumbles in her ear; a cheek is pressed to the back of her head and when she leans back there's a solid chest to rest upon. "Are you cold?" the voice asks her._

 _She nods imperceptibly, just as the organ swells and the church erupts in a chorus;_ Ode To Joy _soaring to the eaves overhanging and swirling around her heart. She nestles into the warm chest and feels hands squeeze her middle – lips press to the soft skin beneath her ear; a warm spike against the cold that's settled in her bones._

_She hums and feels him gather her closer._

" _Merry Christmas, darling," he murmurs adoringly._

When she wakes her room is cold and empty; but out the closed window she swears she can hear music. It strains gently against the backdrop of New York, the distant rumble of cars down the road and the odd screech or shout. She stretches against her sheets and shifts a hand down her stomach slowly, resting against her belly and pressing in softly.

"Hello," she murmurs, "How are you this morning?"

* * *

 

Mackenzie's first memory is waking in the departure lounge of Heathrow Airport days after Christmas, curled on the leather seats with her bottom in the air, her arms and legs tucked underneath her.

According to her mother she's slept like that ever since her little back was able to support her body, and when she'd woke to the hustle of feet in the gate, she'd propped herself up on her elbows, blinking wearily. Her mother was seated next to her, flicking idly through the paper and her fingers drifted gently through Mackenzie's fringe. Her father was pacing back and forth at the end of the aisle and muttering to himself with a folder in hand whilst her brother skipped back and forth, always two steps behind him.

Mackenzie doesn't remember much more than that; only the waking and seeing her family – but for the longest time she'd believed that's where she started – that her first instance of life was opening her eyes in the airport lounge before boarding a flight back to New York.

When she was four and a half her father's extended family had joined them for the holidays. The men were loud and robust, such a difference to the reserved adults she was used to encountering with her parents, and her uncles had taken utter delight in leaning down to her level to ask her questions.

"Where are you from, Mackenzie?" they'd stirred, "Are you English, or are you American?"

Mackenzie had scowled. "No. I'm from the airport," in her mangled English/American cadence.

The men had laughed and then turned to her father, deftly rolling cigarettes by the bar. "You've got yourself a little troublemaker, Eddy!" they'd told him, and Mackenzie hadn't understood why.

Her father had merely lifted his head and nodded; but he'd winked at her later and pressed a kiss to her hair.

"My little airport girl," he'd murmured. To this day he still calls her that to tease.

* * *

 

This year Christmas arrives without Mackenzie noticing – a blasphemous thought, as she's usually much better prepared.

Mackenzie loves Christmas. Loves the snow and the tinsel and the lights strung through tress. She loves hearing carols in the evening and wearing thick sweaters and socks in her apartment; loves buying presents for her niece and nephews to send back to England and seeing their bright faces over the computer on Christmas morning.

When she was a little girl her parents would take her and her brother to church at midnight. Just as in her dream she remembers the smell of candles and incense and the golden hue of candlelight through the stained glass windows.

She remembers kneeling down between her mother and father and not being able to see over the pew in front of her. In frustration she'd curl up on the floor with her colouring books and try to understand what the man at the altar was saying. His voice was always so loud and deep; a constant drone in the otherwise silent church, and Mackenzie remembers wishing he would be silent so she could try and hear Santa's sleigh above the rooftops.

She would wear her best dress on Christmas Eve, a deep red with a satin bow around the middle, thick cream stockings and shiny black buckled shoes. They clicked on the pavement and she used to love stomping up the stone pavers to the church's open doors,  _tip-tap, tip-tap_ , all the way down the aisle.

It's not that she forgets Christmas this year– it would be hard to with the lights and decorations that are strung through the city – rather she doesn't realise the day is almost upon them until she arrives at work to find tinsel hanging from her doorway.

"Maggie went a little overboard," Will tells her, leant against the wall with his arms crossed.

She runs a finger down a line of tinsel, feels the shiny bristles tickle her palm, and then turns to him, smiling. "We could all do with a little Christmas spirit," she tells him.

Will snorts. "You don't think Rudolph over there is a bit much?"

She turns and finds a life size reindeer figurine standing by the Christmas tree in the corner. It has an eerily crooked red mouth painted on, and someone has covered it in fairy lights that blink in random patterns.

"Maggie named him Jim," Will tells her, mocking only slightly.

 _Of course she did._ Mackenzie resists the urge to roll her eyes.

Their song and dance hasn't ended despite Maggie moving in with Don. Jim's been tight lipped about what happened, but Mackenzie is sure she'll get it out of him sometime. And then there's Sloan, who's been unusually quiet lately. She drops by Mackenzie's office not nearly as much as she once had and Mackenzie misses her sporadic companionship throughout the day.

"I've been thinking," Will starts, pushing from the wall resolutely and bringing her from her thoughts.

She turns back to him, arching an eyebrow. "You shouldn't do too much of that Will. You might strain something."

He deftly ignores her. Instead he nudges her gently into her office and she goes without complaint. "What have you been thinking?" she prompts.

"Coat?"

It takes her a second to realise she's still wearing one. He steps forward and with ease unpeels it from her shoulders, catching the heavy fabric at her elbows to pull it backwards and off her arms. He's pressed against her back and all she can think of is those arms wrapped around her in the freezing cold; the clocking ticking past midnight and the rich scent of  _christmas_  in the air and all around her.

"Will, what were you thinking?" she asks him, voice rough and catching at the end. She swallows past the thick lump in her throat and instead focuses on his face as he turns her towards him.

"We should tell them at the Christmas party."

She nods without thinking but then processes his words, freezing.

"Tell them what?"

Will furrows his brow. He folds her coat with ease and places it over the back of her chair. Usually she hangs it by the door but she's loath to complain when he's in such a mood. Instead she sits at her desk and eyes him carefully.

"About the baby, Mackenzie."

It's the first time he's said it with such ease. They've spent hours at work and over the phone at night edging closer to discussing the matter, but the careless way he throws out the term – acknowledging that this pregnancy actually leads to something, it's not just a nine month challenge – leaves her breathless.

"Yes," she says, now understanding.

She opens her mouth to continue, but nothing emerges, so she shuts it.

It's not that she doesn't want to tell everyone. She's almost neared the end of her first trimester, and whilst she's not showing yet, it won't be long before she does. And it would make sense to tell their team over the holidays– give everyone a few days to work it through their system before they return to work, she rationalises.

She'd thought she was prepared for this moment. Had anticipated Will refusing to tell anyone or distancing himself. But her blood feels like it freezes at the very thought of exposing their secret – her body locks and her stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with morning sickness; and the whole physical breakdown catches her completely by surprise. After all, she's the one who's supposed to be level headed about it all.

She stammers an answer, "Okay, yes," wincing at her uncertainty. Will seems so at ease with everything now, like he's breezed through the utter terror they first went through. He's watching her closely but the tone of his voice is as if they were discussing the rundown.

"Mackenzie?" he prods gently. She's focused just passed his head, refusing to meet his eye as her fingers curl.

"Hmmm? No, It's a good idea," she nods quickly, hoping he doesn't continue.

" _Mackenzie."_ Of course he does. Which is fair, she admits – she is acting like a child.

"I'm just scared," she tells him quickly, "That's all. I'm allowed to be scared about telling people."

Will is silent, leant back in his chair. He watches her carefully and she feels like a bug beneath the microscope. She always feels like that when he's considering her.

"I am too," he finally tells her, and despite his apparent ease she  _does_  believe him. He's always been a master at hiding his feelings, and the last four weeks have been no exception.

"But we don't have a choice," he tells her gently.

And in the end that's what everything keeps coming down to.

She shuffles the papers by her computer and nods at him, hoping to signal the end of the conversation. She needs time to think and prepare and to have a quiet breakdown before the day starts.

So, after Christmas everyone will know they're having a child. It's not like she could keep it a secret. But the step between her knowing and the step between her and Will knowing had been an easy one to bridge in the end; she's pretty sure she's no longer capable of keeping secrets from him.

But the step between them and the rest of the team? That feels like the space between tall mountains. Tall mountains separated by hemispheres. Or maybe planets. She hasn't decided.

Other people knowing settles the weight of responsibility and  _reality_  firmly on her shoulders. She wasn't kidding when she'd told Will that three years was the longest she'd signed up for anything.

And having a kid? Yeah, that's a full time, rest of your life, sort of contract. She's never been very good at anticipating that far into the future. Sometimes she barely remembers what her plans are for the coming week.

Before her, Will claps his hands on his knees and stands, walking towards her doorway. He pauses at the last minute, turning back, and she wishes he would just leave so she can start worrying in private.

"Are you feeling okay this morning?" he asks quickly, eyes deftly avoiding her gaze.

She cocks her head to the side and tries to hide her smile; despite everything she  _does_  finds his quiet concern lovely. Annoying, she ponders for a brief second, but lovely.

She'd been worried it might be smothering, but the moments are few and far between. Occasionally he will glance towards her in meetings, eyes shifting to her stomach and then back; he keeps interrupting her around lunchtime or casually mentioning dinner, hands her water bottles as they broadcast and once even asked how she'd slept. Each time he does it with an awkward little shuffle, avoiding her gaze until the last minute, and she's steadily beginning to understand that this is his way of easing into the pregnancy - she's not going to deny him that small part, no matter how startling it might be.

"Yes, I'm fine," she tells him now, "More tired than usual, but I've been told that will ease."

Will nods, running a hand through his hair. "Good," he smiles genuinely. He goes to leave.

"Will you do something for me?" he asks quickly, and she startles.

"Yes Will," she huffs, humoring him.

He shuffles a foot back and forth and Mackenzie's breath catches as she realises he's actually nervous. She's not a fool; she knows how insecure he can be, but there's a quiet, uncommon strength in his words and actions that she wishes he would see in himself.

"Tell me when you start noticing things?" he asks quickly.

His face is blank but his eyes are soft; unguarded in this small moment between them. Mackenzie nods without thinking and then fights to speak through her blooming smile. "Yes, of course. I promise."

He nods once and then walks out, leaving her office. She turns back to her computer and begins the day.

* * *

 

She calls her mother that afternoon because there's a small part in every girl that wants curl up in their mother's arms when they're scared.

She thinks perhaps that if she can get through this phone call that she'll be able to handle anything, but then the phones ringing and her mothers picking up and she's halfway towards the words, "I'm pregnant," when Eloise McHale starts babbling.

"Please say you're ringing to tell me you're coming to London for Christmas," her mother pleads. There's a loud bang accompanying her words from somewhere in the distance. Mackenzie finds herself standing in her office, mouth closing and frowning steadily at the phone.

"No," she says, voice tilting up at the end. "Am I?"

"Your father and I are going to visit your brother and we'd love to have you here darling. The four of us haven't had Christmas together since before you went away and the last time you saw the children was –"

"Your anniversary, I know," Mackenzie mumbles. Her mother has the amazing ability to make her feel guilty about nearly everything. Neither of her parents had been impressed when she took the job in Afghanistan; instead they refer to it as her time _away_. Like she'd been on holidays in Hawaii, or as a correspondent in Paris, or Madrid. Not operating out of Islamabad and getting stabbed whilst attempting to take footage in the middle of a protest. Apparently two Peabody's mean nothing to your parents when you're working in the middle of a war.

 _Will I be like that_ , she wonders, suddenly. Utterly terrified by her child's safety? She supposes that's what their reticence was.

It's probably not the nicest thing to tell your parents over the phone –  _Hi mum and dad, you know that man you thought I was going to marry, that one you really liked? Well, I stuffed that up so now I'm moving to Afghanistan. Be back soon, Love you!_

"I'll think about it," she tells her mother now, "Work is busy, and...other things are busy," she trails off, suddenly unable to find the words when her mother is thousands of miles away, connected only by a telephone line and strenuous reception. She's thrown enough news at them from across the Atlantic. But this is special, she thinks. This needs to be shared face to face, preferably with her head buried in the crook of her mothers elbow.

"Where are you?" she asks instead, because the noise in the background is both concerning and difficult to place. There's the chatter of people talking, but also a constant sizzling, like a kitchen...

"I'm out to dinner with your father. He's talking to the chef...they're old friends. You know how he is," her mother mutters fondly, "I'm standing in the kitchen."

Mackenzie chuckles. Of course she would be there. "Was dinner nice?" she mumbles, looking around her office. She should eat something. The doctor told her she needs to improve her diet. But that requires movement that requires energy, and right now the only thing beating her hunger is her desire to crawl onto her lounge and sleep until the broadcast.

Down the telephone line her mother is describing the exact temperature the salmon was cooked at. Apparently she's been speaking to the kitchen staff, no doubt befriending them in an instant. The McHale's are nothing if not charming.

"Mum? I'm really tired and I have to get back to work," she interrupts suddenly, "Do you mind if I speak to you later?"

Eloise McHale stumbles a moment, but then chuckles, "Of course darling. Are you sure you're okay? You sound a bit off."

Mackenzie's throat tightens and she clenches a fist against the corner of the desk to keep herself grounded. Of course her mother would notice. That's what they do.

"I'm fine mum. And I'll think about Christmas," she goes to hang up, but then, "I love you mum."

"Love you too sweetheart."

She feels a little better.

* * *

 

That night she dreams of the church again and the strong arms around her middle, only this time it's the church of her English childhood and her parents are on the altar before her, dressed in robes. Her mother's knelt before an empty manger and Mackenzie tries to turn in the mans arms, wanting to ask why they're back in England and what on earth her parents are doing, but he's locked steady around her waist and Mackenzie can't figure out anything, least of all who he is.

She awakes breathless and parched in the middle of the night, and spends the next four hours curled on the couch watching infomercials despite her bone weary exhaustion.

At six she gets up and eats a bowl of dry cereal because it had seemed like a good idea in the lounge room. She's been much less sick over the past few days, but by the time she's finished she's feeling nauseous and pissed off with the world because she just wanted breakfast, not bloody world peace, and is that so much to ask?

God forbid anyone cross her this morning, she thinks, because she can already tell it's going to be hell.

* * *

 

Pregnancy isn't that much different to operating out of a warzone, she decides around midday.

She's constantly exhausted, though that's beginning to lessen, she doesn't eat enough and her body keeps sabotaging her attempts get through any routine.

Take for instance, she's nearly 12 weeks along, and her breasts keep trying to escape out her bra. A month ago it wasn't a problem she'd even considered, but now it's all she can think about. Every time she leaves her office she finds herself conscious of them and the tightened feeling around her waist – she's just waiting for someone to sneak up behind her and announce her news to the world.

She's running late to a meeting and she's not yet been out to buy a new bra (she's steadfastly ignoring the thought of maternity clothes, because  _that's_  terrifying) so everything feels out of place and both too tight but bouncy and all she wants to do is make it into her office to readjust.

"Mackenzie, stop!" Maggie yells.

She startles and freezes, whipping around to face the young woman.

Maggie has a box filled with small ornaments and spare tinsel on her desk that she insists everyone look through when ever they pass her by.

"I will, later!" Mackenzie tells her for the fifth time, holding up a hand pleadingly, and subtly trying to squash herself back into place. She was supposed to be at Charlie's office ten minutes ago and she still has to grab her portfolio. Not to mention she hasn't eaten since the early morning, which wouldn't have been a problem a few months ago, but now it leaves her feeling hazy and lightheaded on top of her few hours sleep.

"Please Mac!" Maggie begs, and she makes the mistake of glancing down at the box.

There's a little golden angel sitting a top a coil of red tinsel and Mackenzie can't help but step towards it. She's always been a sucker for shiny, glittery things.

"I kept that one for you," Maggie tells her, grinning proudly.

Mackenzie chuckles, and nods in thanks.

She picks it up, but then notices a little tuft of hay peaking out from beneath it. It's from a half complete nativity set; a wooden manger with hay and a soft blanket laying a top it. She picks it up and turns it over in her hand slowly; remembers seeing a larger one in church when she was little, tucked at the back near the entrance. In the weeks before Christmas it would always be empty, but then at midnight mass the baby Jesus would be carried towards it and laid to rest there, the shepherd's and the wise men and Mary and Joseph all gathered around under the angels. She'd been fascinated by nativity scenes when she was little, and always deathly jealous of the person who carried the baby up the aisle. She remembers begging her mother to let her join the children's procession one year in the hopes it might be her.

"Can I have this?" she asks Maggie now, holding up the empty manger.

Maggie shrugs, "Sure. But I don't know where the baby went," she apologises.

Mackenzie smiles, "It doesn't matter," and steps back into her office. She sets the manger and the angel on the corner of her desk where she can see them and then with a huff shuffles everything back into place.

Her limbs are heavy and they ache and her stomach is growling. She knows she looks terrible. Will's going to kill her when she finally gets to this meeting.

She picks up her portfolio and dashes back out of the room. It's barely even passed midday and already she's ready to kill someone.

* * *

 

Will's on his way to find Mackenzie for their meeting with Charlie when she appears before him in the hallway, stormy faced and muttering, "I hate you," over and over.

Will, to his credit, is sure he hasn't done anything particularly thoughtless in the last week, and thus is startled from his path. He's been extra carefully not to aggravate Mackenzie lest they lose the delicate equilibrium they've recently managed to create.

"Pray tell why?" he asks, confused.

Mackenzie pauses; cheeks flushed red and eyes bright. She shakes her head as if she's only just now realised Will is standing before her. "You probably don't want to know."

Well, now he definitely does. "Mackenzie."

She tugs at his sleeve, rolled up to the elbow, and drags him down the hallway into an empty office. She glances out the door before shutting it and then turns on him, hands flying.

"I hate you because my breasts are sore and my stomach keeps trying to climb up my throat even though that's supposed to have stopped and my clothes are too tight and because I have to chose between all these tests to have done on our child and I have no idea what the right ones are, not to mention there are all these vitamins I'm supposed to be taking and I have to drink more milk, and I  _hate_  milk Will.  _I hate it_."

He remembers. She used to make faces at him across the breakfast bar when he'd pour it on top of his cereal.

Mackenzie sags against the door, her fists pulled up to her eyes as she takes a breath. "This is hard," she mutters, trembling.

She was right; perhaps he didn't want to know. But as with most things regarding her he doesn't have a choice. And he'd be lying is he said he's not been expecting this breakdown. "Come here," he murmurs, gesturing her forward.

She tips towards him and buries her head in his neck like she's trying to curl as close to him as possible. He's always loved how she hugs, arms and legs and face all pressed up against him. He relishes the contact and brushes a kiss to her forehead.

"Breathe, Mackenzie," he murmurs, stroking her hair. "Just breathe."

* * *

 

They sit down over lunch in her office following the meeting and Will hazards towards her outburst.

"You mentioned tests, and vitamins?" he asks her, and he seems to be genuinely interested. ( _He's done a few basic Google searches over the past couple of weeks._   _i.e. he's spent most nights on the internet for hours trying to learn as much as possible_ )

Mackenzie shrugs and makes a noise around a bite of salad. She can feel Will's eyes on the leafy greens and then he holds up his sandwich. "Do you want some?"

She glares at him.

"Are you tired?" he asks.

"I'm always tired Will."

He pushes back from his desk and stifles a growl low in his throat. She immediately feels guilty. "Mackenzie, I'm just trying to –"

"I know," she mumbles, chastised. She hopes he can hear the apology in her voice. She's gotten very good at expressing them through her words and her manner.

She takes a breath and sets down her fork, leaning back in her chair and stretching.

"I couldn't sleep last night. And I already feel like every muscle in my body is trying to pull apart at the seams, and even though the nauseas has gotten much better I still couldn't eat my breakfast this morning," she pauses, shaking her head.

"You know how terrified you've been?" she asks, and he nods mutely. They've discussed their fear enough to know it exists. "Well, not to complain, but I've got that, alongside every physical annoyance and ache you can imagine, constantly reminding me that I'm carrying a baby that will then be my child for the rest of my life."

Will pauses around a bite of his sandwich. "I get it," he nods, though she's pretty sure he doesn't. Not until he has to push a watermelon out of his body will she accept that he understands what she's going through.

But she appreciates he's trying and that he has his own set of issues to work through.

"Can we try something?" he asks her, breaking her internal rant.

She shrugs, setting down her fork. "It depends."

"Come with me."

He steps forward and pulls her up from her chair, walking her out the door and towards the elevators. He pushes the button for Charlie's floor. "Where are we going?" she questions loudly.

Don passes by them and eyes them suspiciously.

When they're in the elevator, safe and alone and with nowhere for her to escape, Will tells her.

"We're going to tell Charlie."

"No!" She pushes backwards, straight into the elevator wall. "No, no. Not now," she begs. She's really not ready to do this now. "Please Will!"

"We have to tell someone," he hisses. "We're both going insane and that can't be normal. We're telling Charlie."

He grips her elbow and jostles her down the hallway when the elevator doors open. She drags her feet, hissing at him, " _I fail to see how this is going to help_."

When they step into Charlie's office he's hanging up his phone and arches an eyebrow at them both. "What have you done?" he asks, looking between them both.

"We have something to tell you," Will announces.

"We really don't."

" _Mackenzie._ "

Charlie chuckles. "This wouldn't have something to do with what we discussed the other day?" he asks Will.

Mackenzie gasps and shoves his shoulder. "I didn't say anything!" Will defends.

"He didn't. But now I want  _you_  to tell me."

The old man settles his hands before him and levels them both with a patient smile.

Mackenzie crumbles. She's never been able to deny Charlie anything. She takes a breath.

"I'm pregnant."

She was kind of expecting the world to implode, and is only a little disappointed when it doesn't. Instead, Charlie's eyes widen, and she takes a strange comfort in the knowledge that she's shocked him.

"That was not what I was expecting."

Will chuckles, "Evidently."

"I'm assuming that because you're not sobbing over a bottle of scotch that the child is yours?" Charlie asks, and Will looks sufficiently startled.

Mackenzie curls her arms around herself, meeting Charlie's warm gaze. "How are you feeling?" he asks.

"Scared. Tired. Hungry. Mostly in that order."

"If either one of you need anything, let me know," Charlie tells her.

He stands and walks towards her and Mackenzie rocks back, uncertain of his movements. It's not until he has an arm around her shoulder that she realises he's hugging her, and then she melts into the embrace gratefully, pressing her nose to his shoulder to stifle her sob.

"Congratulations kids," Charlie whispers to them both; and now she finally understands why Will made her do this.

For the first time in the last few weeks she actually stops and breathes.

* * *

 

It's late and the evening's broadcast was smooth.

Mackenzie is in her office turning the empty manger over and over in her hands, fingering the soft fabric laying a top it. At some point she's going to have to start buying things for the baby. Maybe she can get Will to send someone to do that.

She slips an arm down her chest and holds a hand over her abdomen and then -  _holy hell, when did that happen?_

She stops and strips open her shirt, staring down because right at the curve of her hipbones is a barely visible bump, just raised enough for her to notice.

She presses her hand back tentatively and brushes it down her skin. Her fingers shake, but they steady when she presses closer, and she remembers reading somewhere that if she prods her abdomen gently the baby will respond with movement. Not that she can feel anything, but soon she will, and the knowledge that there's a little person swimming around happily and busily growing organs and such is both a terrifying trip and absolutely  _amazing_.

She can't help but giggle slightly, and rubs her fingers over the skin reverently.

"Mackenzie?"

She jumps. Will is at her door; she can see his outline through the opaque glass.

"Yes?"

She buttons her top hastily, just in time for him to push inside. He moves into the room and settles on the edge of her desk, arms crossed as he eyes her carefully.

"You feeling better?"

"Yes," she tells him, "Thank you, for this afternoon. Both times, actually. I've been a bit of a mess all day."

"You're just tired," Will murmurs, then, "Charlie's happy."

They share a smile. The old mans always been too invested in their relationship. Mackenzie stands, remembering her promise from a few days ago.

"Come here."

Will steps forward without question, something she's loath to think about so late in the evening, but she's pretty sure he'd follow her to the ends of the earth if she asked him.

"I have a bump," she whispers, conspiratorially.

Will's eyes light up. "Yeah?"

He doesn't ask to touch and she doesn't ask if he wants to. That's crossing a line neither one of them is prepared to approach this evening. Enough has happened in the past 24 hours to propel their lives forward, but she wants to share this with him; this defining moment.

Their child is beginning to be seen by the world.

"You know it's about the size of a lime," Will tells her, conversationally, like they're discussing the weather.

She giggles softly, but nods. She's been doing her googling too.

"This week it should be practicing how to curl it's fingers and toes."

"Knowing us it's probably doing neither of those things," she ponders.

"Please, it would have figured that out weeks ago."

She snorts, because it's late and this conversation is clearly getting ridiculous.

"Thank you for pushing me," she tells him instead, sobering quickly. "I needed that."

She hopes he understands. He shrugs, but it's a cute, little shuffle of his shoulder, and she thinks perhaps he does. She thinks perhaps he's the only person who's ever really understood her fears and uncertainties. Her mother, maybe, is the other one. Because that's what mothers do – they understand.

"Will," she murmurs, voice catching. Because she knows now what she has to do, she just doesn't know if he's going to like it.

"Yeah?"

"Over Christmas, I know there's the party, but I don't think I'm going to be there."

He furrows his eyebrows, his lips frowning, "Mackenzie, we just –"

"I know. But I spoke to my mother yesterday. I miss her. I think I'm going to go to London."

Will is silent, unblinking; his eyes seep into her soul.

He huffs and then shrugs. After all, he's unable to stop her.

* * *

 

_That night she dreams of the church and the candles and the cold seeping down towards her toes._

_She presses back and the mans arms tighten around her. She wishes she knew who he was; or perhaps just why everything is so familiar._

_In the light of day she knows, but in her dreams she's lost; her arms feel light and liable to float away if not for him holding her. He squeezes around her middle and presses a kiss to her hair and through the hazy light, he whispers._

" _Soon."_


	4. With The Dawn of Redeeming Grace, Part 2

" _Mackenzie," he murmurs, voice drifting gently through the morning haze. "Mackenzie, wake up."_

_It's snowing. The outside world is still and silent, but spread across the country countless families are huddled around blinking trees. Adults hold hot cups of cocoa and blow at the wisps of steam that rise. Children are bright and pad across the carpet, their eyes wide at their stockings and presents. A multitude of coloured wrapping paper grows in piles on the floor amongst the tinsel and the lights - the world is waking to a magical morning._

_Inside the apartment she drifts the line between reality and dreams, each breath feather light whilst he presses himself against her body. He has his cheek nestled against her own and his stubble catches on her skin; his lips are delicate as they brush beneath her ear and she squirms, finally awake and curling closer._

" _Morning," she whispers, giddy. "Merry Christmas."_

* * *

On Christmas mornings, when Mackenzie was young, she would awake to her brother Julian shaking her under the bedspread.

They weren't allowed presents until after Mass, and the hour service was always so much longer; that many more people packed in around them, the air heavy with excitement and the frost and children anxious at the thought of what Santa had brought them. She never understood why they attended morning mass, only hours ago they were trundling wearily out of the midnight service, but her father would read passages at the lectern and her mother organised the procession. They would stand in the front pew, on either side their children, and it wasn't until they'd greeted every family they were acquainted with that the McHale's would head home to their own tree.

She remembers the thick scent of roast turkey and potatoes drifting gently through the house as it edged towards dinner. Her mother would spend all morning in the kitchen and by 2 o'clock the entire family would be starving. They'd gather around the table and her father would lead them in prayer; eyes closed and hands clasped but one of the children would always peak through their lashes and end up giggling.

During dinner Mackenzie would spill cranberry sauce down her chin and Julian always complained about the parsnips. The Christmas pudding would sit in the middle of the table and Eloise McHale would serve it with delicious brandy butter. It was such a treat for the children, and Mackenzie still feels all of seven and dressed in her Christmas best whenever she drinks Brandy Alexander's.

She arrives at Heathrow in the dredges of winter, the plane touching down in the early morning whilst the outside world is still dark.

It's not been snowing, as it so rarely does in London, but the winter is harsh and cold and there's ice around the runways. As the plane jolts to a final stop she rests a hand on her stomach briefly.

She collects her luggage and trundles through the crowds towards border control, praising the lord for dual citizenships as she eyes the line of tourists to her left. The officer stamps her passport and offers her a smile, "Welcome home," he says, and she hums gently.

As she makes her way swiftly to the tube station before the rush she thinks back on his words; Julian had offered her a lift but she'd insisted on meeting him at his house. She likes the time it takes sitting on the tube to realign with the city – the smells and the tastes and the sights resettle in her skin and she becomes a part of the mad dash all over again.

Yes. America will always be her nation, her home. But London will always be her city.

On the tube she's sat next to a businessman on his iPad and next to her is a copy of  _The Sun_. She hesitates a moment, but picks it up gingerly, opening to a page titled  _Rhianna at Macdonald's_ , and with a sigh promptly closes it.

Her phone vibrates and she pulls it from her pocket, opening the message. It's from Julian, a simple question mark and then a smiley face, and she rolls her eyes – he was always a quiet teenager. Some things never change.

She texts back,  _Arrived safe. On the tube now. Be there in twenty_.  _M_

She only ever signs  _M_  with Julian. All of four years older than her, he'd started calling her  _m'n'm_  before she could pronounce Mackenzie and sometime as she'd grown older it was shortened to  _M_. Now she doesn't think twice about it. There was that rapper a few years ago that spelt it strangely, or so she thinks - she can't quite remember. But Julian had sent her a copy of his album as a joke for her birthday and it's still new and in its wrapper on her shelf. She smiles whenever she walks by it but refuses to open or listen to it.

She doesn't think she'll be one of those women who makes lists of children's names. So far she's not thought about it, not until now when her childhood is overwhelming her. She was never one to daydream about her future husband, or family – she spent too much time dreaming of her future travels - but there are names she likes. Olivia and Alice, Thomas, or Samuel. She's not completely lost.

She starts scribbling on the side of the newspaper without a second thought, and it isn't until the names are written that she realizes what she's done. She blushes slightly, but no one knows her here, and it wouldn't matter if they did – she's simply scribbling. But she still pulls the paper close to her chest and cradles it.

Names are important – this moment feels important. The poor child will be stuck with what she chooses for the rest of its life.

Mackenzie Katherine McHale, she thinks. It was always a mouthful, and the double mc's were terrible for a child who was torn somewhere between two accents and with a bit of a lisp. People often comment on how strong her british one has stayed, and she thinks in part its because she was so adamant to have  _one_  as she grew older – not a garbled mess. She lived in England for the majority of her school years, and the odd looks she'd received when she'd first opened her mouth were quick to go when she insisted upon speaking with a proper, crisp voice like her mothers. Her name had become less of a problem, but she's still always hated the double mc's.

And then she went a feel in love with a McAvoy. She chuckles irreverently and glances back down at her list.

Sometime it feels like people have always been renaming her.

To her father she's still the little airport girl and her mother is fond of her full name,  _Mackenzie Katherine McHale_. Professionally, they all call her Mac, and Sloan has somehow slipped into calling her Kenzie.

And Will; well, he's always called her a mixture, depending on the situation and his ever changing mood. She's Mac at work and Mackenzie in private; but Kenzie was once upon a time when he was soft and curled against her in the evenings, eyes hooded and hands mapping her skin, as he whispered in mumbles against her.

 _Who named you_ , she thinks. William Duncan McAvoy.

The carriage jolts to a stop and it takes her a moment to realise she's arrived at Julian's station – she hurries to stand and push her suitcase onto the platform. She's spent twenty minutes pondering names, and she'd thought she wouldn't be one of those women. She chuckles again and shakes her head.

She doesn't know what she's doing nowadays.

* * *

 

There's shouting on the other side of the front door and she can't help but raise an eyebrow at the doorbell.

Julian has three children – two boys and a little girl, aged 9, 7 and 4 respectively. They're gorgeous children, lively and well mannered and she has wonderful conversations with the eldest, Peter, over skype on a Sunday morning.

She rings the doorbell once more and the shouting ceases – there's a scuffle of feet and then the door is opening and a tiny body has propelled itself forward, shouting "Aunt Kenzie" in a loud, high voice.

It's James, his hair a mess of dark blonde curls and he has a toothbrush stuffed in his mouth, jumbling his words. She rocks back with the force of his little arms around her until she lowers down and grips his shoulders, pulling him close. He smells of mint and washing detergent and something else indescribable – she thinks perhaps it's little boy – dirt and sun and playfulness.

"Hello James," she grins, digging her fingers into his side to tickle. He giggles and twists away, standing before her on the step with her hands on his shoulders.

"Look at you," she breathes – because he's grown so tall.

The last time she saw her nephews in the flesh, James was only a toddler, and the youngest, Amelia, wasn't even born. Since then she's struck up early morning chats on Skype with Julian and the children, but its still not the same as being with them, holding them. She's a little surprised at the force of James smile and his arms around her – so trusting, like she visits every few days, not every few years.

"Where's everyone else?" she asks.

The little boy shrugs, grinning at her with his mouth around his toothbrush. "Peter's in trouble," he tells her, rocking forward to whisper, "He forgot to clean his room and now daddy's mad."

She goes to answer, but then another body is hurtling down the narrow wooden hallway – Peter this time and he's so tall Mackenzie feels her breath catch. Was this really the child she'd carried on her hip the last time she's seen him – he'd been no older then four or five, and now he's nine and basically grown up...

"Peter," she gushes, and pulls him close. He tucks into her body with his head below her breast, pressed into her stomach with his arms snug around her. She drops a kiss to his dark mess of hair and glancing up, catches Julian's eye down the hallway.

And she'd promised herself she wouldn't cry. Really, she had, she bemoans as the tears well.

But her family; they mean everything – and that's never been so clear as when she returns.

* * *

 

Mackenzie spent more time moving through airports in the first ten years of her life than anyone else in her school year. She knows because she took a survey and presented her findings during news.

She collected each of her ticket stubs in a small photo album that hid under her bed, and when her best friend Rosie would come over after school they'd sneak into her fathers office and steal her passport to sift through the stamps on the pages, tiny fingers tracing the ink whilst Mackenzie described Paris and Milan and Hawaii as best she could.

"This is from Tokyo," she would murmur. "It was  _so_  busy." She'd accompanied her mother there on business when she was eight.

Rosie would always crinkle her nose and shake her head, her voice high and breathy with awe when she would say, "You're  _so_  lucky Mackenzie. I've never even been to the beach."

Mackenzie rather liked the beach. Her mother had taken her to the coast of Dorset when she was quite young, just the two of them. Julian had already started school and her father had been too busy to leave the country, but Eloise McHale had wanted to show her young daughter her home and so the pair had spent a week by the seaside. They'd collected shells along the waters edge and skirted into the waves with bare feet and when the sun had set across the water Mackenzie can remember her mother wrapping her up in her arms with a large woolen blanket.

Mackenzie's father would always ask where her favourite place has been. Washington, perhaps – or maybe York, where they spent a week visiting distant cousins one Christmas; Rome, or Chicago, or maybe Paris or Tokyo.

Mackenzie can remembers lots of buildings and lots of museums and lots of official men with sharp buttons on their uniforms guiding them through posh hotels. Since she was a child she's known she was lucky.

What she's never been able to work out is how to tell her father her favourite place is home.

* * *

 

"How was the flight?" Julian asks, pressing a mug of tea into her fingers; the sweet curl of steam is soothing in the morning and it helps calm the beat of her heart.

"Fine," she tells him, "I slept mostly," which is a lie – she'd been jittery the entire flight. She takes a quick sip of tea and smiles as Julian crowds next to her. His eyebrow is raised but he remains silent – she knocks her shoulder into his, and rocks with the force of his return.

"What prompted the change of heart?" he asks her.

Always straight to the point, is her Julian. She buries her nose in her mug and mumbles slightly, trying to avoid the question. She doesn't really have an answer – she knows her sudden appearance is unusual. She'd spent almost two months explaining to her family why she  _wouldn't_  be coming home.

And now she's here and sitting in Julian's kitchen drinking tea and her mother is on her way over to see her. Julian knocks her in the shoulder again, patiently awaiting her words.

"I just wanted to be home," she tells him, somewhat defensively. "I wanted to see you all. The children are so big and I've not even met Amelia."

Julian is watching her closely, eyes trained on the side of her face, and she can feel the blush seep into her cheeks and spread down her neck traitorously.

He doesn't say anything, however, just leans over and presses a kiss to her skin. She ducks away and giggles sharply and she feels all of ten years old again; wants to push him away but also draw him close because Julian has always seen right through her.

"Will you tell me?" he whispers, leaning back, and she nods without thinking. Of course she will. That's why she's here, halfway across the globe when she could be warm at home, celebrating with a lifetime movie and hot cups of cocoa.

Julian pushes back and then there's a whine from upstairs and a little, high voice calling daddy. Amelia is awake and her tuffs of blonde hair are peaking around the corner. She's sleepy and rubs a hand against her eye and she's wearing slippers on her feet that are white and fluffy. Julian steps towards her and with a brilliant smile scoops the tiny girl up into his arms.

Suddenly Mackenzie is in the future – her heart pounds and her limbs feel limp – because one day this will be her life. One day she'll have a small child to greet in the mornings, and to cuddle close and by slippers for.

"Come meet your Aunt Mackenzie," Julian smiles, stepping forwards, and Mackenzie goes willingly. She holds her arms out to Amelia and the little girl swoops forward immediately, snuggling into her embrace and seeking her warmth.

Mackenzie holds her close and thinks of the weight of her in her arms – her fresh smell and the delicate curl of her fingers around her neck; and she thinks,  _soon._

* * *

 

_A week earlier_

"Do you have plans for Christmas?" Sloan asks, sticking her head around Mackenzie's office door. Her voice is lilted down like it does whenever she's confused and it's a tone of voice Mackenzie hears a lot from Sloan – the economist finds most of society baffling.

Christmas, however, should not be that confusing. "Yes," Mackenzie finds herself saying. She surprises herself, because she'd not really decided until this moment.

"I'm going to England, to see my family," she says, and finds her confidence in the idea growing by the second.

Sloan pauses and seems even more surprised, she opens her mouth and it takes a few seconds for the words to emerge. "That's great," she finally says, and her smile is genuine.

"I was going to suggest a movie marathon. But England is probably cooler."

Mackenzie chuckles and then shrugs, "I've been promising them for years."

"That'll be nice," Sloan ponders, picking at the edge of her folder, "Have you told Will?"

Mackenzie doesn't even want to think about why she would ask such a question. Perhaps her silence is the reason – Sloan is socially inept but she's not blind. In fact she's eerily observant – she just has little tact. She's probably known for months that something is brewing between the two.

"I have, yes," Mackenzie mutters, glancing down. The conversation had been awkward and horrible and she feels like she's set them back weeks, and they'd been so bloody close to finally coming together on everything.

She can still picture the surprised look that had slid into disappointment when she'd blurted her plans out to him.

"I have," she sighs.  _Messed everything up, again._

* * *

 

Eloise McHale loves her family.

She loves her son and his wife, and her three grandchildren, and her husband.

She loves the little world they've built in London, and Wednesday evenings when the three children stay late at her house. She loves Sunday brunch at Julian's out on the patio and the tinkling of the piano keys as Peter shows her what he's learnt.

She also loves her daughter; but it's a different type of love. A love born out of physical distance and fear and worry, not close familiarity. To love Julian, she need only drive ten minutes up the road. To love Mackenzie she feels the strings around her heart grip painfully, whilst the twinge of phone static plays in the background.

When her children had been born Eloise and Edward had both supposed Julian would be the troublemaker. He was the first-born; the boy – but he was quiet and studious and never broke a bone. The most they've ever worried about Julian was when he was twelve and stayed at a friends house for the first night.

Mackenzie, on the other hand, had been in hospital when she was two and a half with a broken wrist – she'd tried climbing her up her father's bookcase - and ever since that terrible moment they've been on the edge of their seat with worry over what their youngest child will do next.

It's a cold morning, only two days before Christmas, and Eloise still doesn't quite believe that Mackenzie is on the other side of Julian's front door. But she and Edward are standing in their thick winter coats and when Lucy, Julian's wife, ushers them in down the narrow hallway, Eloise feels her heart twist and beat quickly and then her breath catch – and then Mackenzie is there.

Her little girl has her hair shorter, and tied back. Tendrils of brown are curled around her cheeks and she's flushed happily – her eyes are bright and her lips are rosy.  _Alive,_  Eloise thinks. Mackenzie looks so  _alive_. And then she's looking up.

Eloise McHale is not one to rush, but in a second she has her arms around Mackenzie and her daughter is pressed to her front in a tight, warm hug – no room to breathe – in the best type of cuddle. One only a parent can give.

* * *

 

Mackenzie can't move – can't think – just breathes in deep the rich scent of her mother – roses and some other exotic blend – and lays her head on her shoulder.

"Hi mum," she whispers, and Eloise seems to whimper. She presses a kiss to Mackenzie's hair and then her father is rubbing her back.

"Good to see you girly," he mumbles.

_And yes, her heart thinks, this is home._

* * *

 

The family is curled on the lounge in the backroom of Julian and Lucy's home with the fire blazing. Christmas lights are strung across the tree and they twinkle in the late afternoon.

The eight of them have spent the day swapping stories and reacquainting themselves with their lost member – Mackenzie has been privy to every story Peter and James can possibly remember, her father and Julian keep interrupting with old memories and tales from work, and her mother has fretted, and spent the day patting back her hair, and then fusses over her, bringing her tea and biscuits until Mackenzie has to hold her hand tight and beg her to stop – her morning sickness hasn't completely dissipated, after all.

They'd debated going out for lunch, but the roads are murderous and the city even more so – it's two days before Christmas and London has gone insane. Instead they make sandwiches and Julian braves the frost to buy chicken and chips from a local shop. They spread the feast out across the dining table and the children pick at it with their fingers until the adults join in.

Amelia has attached herself to Mackenzie's side, enraptured by the new adult, and her sticky fingers have left small marks down the edge of her pants – but she doesn't mind in the least. She likes the quiet presence of the little girl following behind her, and heavy in her lap.

Now it's late afternoon and the little girls head is resting against her. Peter and James are trying to explain the plot of the movie they're watching – something about Pirates? Eloise is sitting to Mackenzie's side and she can feel her mother's eyes on her, watching. Julian too has spent the day studying her and Mackenzie is sure they must know – how could they not? They have an eerie sixth sense when it comes to her.

Her phone vibrates in her pocket and it shocks her – shocks the little girl in her lap as well. Amelia's head peaks up and her wide brown eyes are curious. She doesn't say much, but Mackenzie suspects that's because she has two older brothers who speak for her. She fishes the phone from her pocket with a small grin at Amelia – the little girl settles and rests her head back down, content to keep watching the movie.

Mackenzie's phone reads:  _Hey, Just wanted to make sure you arrived safe. Will_

And suddenly the room feels claustrophobic.

It's nearing minus degrees outside and the heat inside isn't overbearing but Mackenzie feels like her body's on fire. Her heart is beating quickly and her limbs feel tight – all at once it's like being submerged under the sea – those deathly terrifying few moments when the breath is punched from you and your lungs beg for mercy.

Because Will should be here, she thinks. Can't help but want him next to her, in this moment. He should be here because this day has been about family – this trip is about family. Reacquainting herself with her own and introducing it's newest member and to not have Will here, when he's instrumental in its making?

She feels wrong and lost, like a limbs been cut from her body. Like she's floating above the floor and drowning under the sea.

Her head swims back into focus and the noise and the light settle, and her heart slows. She breathes deeply.

She wants Will here. She knows that now. And it's terrifying and liberating in its entirety.

"Who is it?" her father asks, nodding towards the phone clutched in her hand.

She responds without thinking, "Will. Just making sure I landed safe," and the quiet of the room is deafening as the adults turn towards her.

"Will McAvoy?" her mother asks.

Mackenzie resists the urge to roll her eyes. "Yes mum. We work together again, I told you that."

And she really did. One of the first things they talked about when she moved to New York was working with Will. They'd been surprised, and then hesitant, and then confused – because surely that was awkward.

Her family is so very British sometimes, and the thought of an affair had shocked them deeply. But she'd been adamant in taking the blame, wanted Will to remain clean in their vision – her father had always been gruffly fond of him, and her mother had practically swooned upon meeting him.

"How's that going," Julian asks, and his tone is just a little too knowing for Mackenzie's liking. She shoots him a glare – after all they are siblings, despite being adults – and then replies haughtily.

"It's going well, thank you."

"Your father sometimes watches the broadcast online," her mother tells her, and Mackenzie smiles at him fondly. He's always been so interested in her work life – even when she was in the Middle East, she'd occasionally receive emails that talked about her latest broadcasts or articles.

With Julian she shares an understanding born from a sibling connection. For so long they'd both been shuffled around the globe and a sense of camaraderie was inevitable in that situation. With her mother she shares the ineffable bond that arises between mothers and daughters – it's gossamer and intangible and grows from moments of quiet connection and close hugs.

But with her father she shares a love of the world; a love of literature. A love of music and politics and welfare and an unending curiosity about people and the globe they live in.

In her father she finds a fellow soul, and that's comforting when the worlds seems to be against her.

"It's good, Mackenzie," he tells her quietly, and his small smile is proof enough that what she and Will are trying to create is worth it.

She blushes softly and nods, "Thank you."

"You and Will always made a wonderful team."

It's true, she thinks. No matter what, from the beginning – at least when he isn't actively working against her – they fit in and around each other like pieces of a puzzle.

"We like working together," she says, and she's positive that it's true. After all, he's had hundreds of opportunities to fire her and not taken any of them. And now they have a child – a connection that can't be broken, not by hatred or work or misunderstanding.

She pets Amelia's fringe back from her face – the little girl is sleepy in the late afternoon – and there is a moment of silence between the adults. James and Peter have been quiet throughout the whole exchange, but now they are restless and James, with the boundless energy that only seven years old possess, bounces up on his knees and crawls forward towards the lounge and hooks his hands across Mackenzie's legs, his smile cheeky.

"Aunt Kenzie, did you bring presents?" he asks.

And Mackenzie thinks,  _Oh Will, we're not prepared for this at all._

* * *

 

It's late when Mackenzie thumbs open her phone's messages again. She'd sent a quick text back to Will to assure him she'd arrived safe, but she thinks perhaps she owes him more than that – perhaps she should call him? She doesn't know.

There isn't a protocol from spending Christmas on the other side of the world from the man you're having a child with. Perhaps she should write one. She can't be the only person in the world to have a life this fucked up.

"Am I interrupting?" Lucy asks, knocking quietly at the door and peaking a head around it.

Mackenzie shakes her head. She smiles and gestures Lucy inside and her sister-in-law settles on the bed across from her.

They've never been as close as they perhaps could have been – after all, Mackenzie's spent most of her time in America and then two years in the Middle East. But Lucy has been a part of Julian's life for the better part of 15 years now, and they've carved out a strange type of friendship. They're not quite sisters but just beyond friends and she finds herself valuing Lucy's quiet presence in the evening.

"Look, I know everyone is convinced that something must be terribly wrong for you to be here. Which I think, frankly, is absurd. But if there is something bothering you, I'm here."

Mackenzie feels her heart inflate – "I'm pregnant," she blurts out quickly, and Lucy's eyes widen.

She probably wasn't expecting that.

"Oh, wow. That was not on my list of possible outcomes."

Mackenzie can't help but giggle at the stunned look on Lucy's face, and soon the two of them have rocked forward and are giggling around smiles, trying to breathe.

"I'm sorry," Lucy gasps, and Mackenzie just giggles harder.

She's jetlagged and pregnant and is trying to understand why her heart keeps tugging her towards her phone. The whole evening is frankly ridiculous.

"Oh, but are you really?" Lucy asks, slightly in awe and sobering.

"Yes. Three months now."

"Oh Mackenzie. Congratulations."

They share a soft smile, and Mackenzie thinks this might be good. Lucy knows what she's going through. She's done it three times.

"It's like being taken over by an alien," she says without thinking, but Lucy is nodding emphatically, and she reaches a hand out to grasp Mackenzie's own.

"The second trimester is always kinder," she says, "but then it all gets worse after that. So much worse. But I promise it is worth it in the end."

Mackenzie thinks of rocking Amelia to sleep earlier that evening – the four-year-old heavy in her lap. Thinks of Peter and James sleepily pressing kisses to her cheeks and then Lucy and Julian's own. Thinks of the fights she and her mother once had and the moments they'd shared, so profound in comparison to everything else.

Yes, she can believe it's worth it.

"I hope so," she murmurs.

Lucy squeezes her hand. "Can I ask the obvious question?"

"It's Will."

"Shit, Mackenzie."

She snorts, but sobers immediately. "Yeah."

"How's he taken it?"

"Unbelievably well. I'm still waiting for the other shoe to drop. I think it might have started to though, when I told him I was coming here for Christmas."

Lucy's brow crinkles. She shuffles forward so the both of them are shoulder to shoulder, and they lie back against the headboard.

"Why?" she enquires.

Mackenzie sighs. She had no fucking clue at first, honestly. She was so confused – it seems to be her default emotion lately. Terrified and confused, but with fits of giddy joy that leave her exhausted. And the horrible blankness in Will's eyes had left her stomach rolling all week.

But she thinks she understands now.

It's the feeling she gets, sitting here in Julian's house – that whilst she may be home and with family - that it's not complete.

That when she sits downstairs with the children before her, and her parents to her left and Julian to her right, that Will should be tucked up on the lounge with her.

He belongs here, in these moments. He belongs by her, with their child, as everything changes and grows.

She doesn't know if that's romantic – though she's not a fool – she knows now that she loves him. But whether or not either one of them is ready for anything in their own relationship to progress, it doesn't mean he shouldn't be here as their child grows.

"I don't think he wants to miss anything," she finally murmurs.

* * *

 

It's late and Lucy has gone to bed and Mackenzie is curled beneath the covers.

She can't sleep and her head is cloudy; her fingers itch to reach across the pillow and grasp her phone.

She gives in with a sigh and presses the buttons without thinking – she doesn't let herself breathe until the first few dial tones have gone. And then Will's voice is gruff and sleepy down the phone and she can't believe he's in bed at 10 pm on Christmas Eve. But he is.

"Will?"

It takes him a moment to respond, but when he does his voice is clearer.

"Mackenzie?"

"Do you want to find out the sex of the baby?" she asks without preamble.

She doesn't know where the questions springs from. She's been reading again, and she knows the option is there, and she wants Will's say on this. She wants his say on everything.

"We can find out. But do you want to?"

He's silent. She can hear his breath in quiet puffs and then he groans, possibly stretching on the bed. She aches to feel him close by her, wants to be curled up by his side, and the feeling is terrible and hollow and spreads from the pit of her stomach, out.

"Do you?" he grumbles, and she wants to scold him.

"I'm asking you Will."

"I don't know. Yes, yeah. Probably. It would be easier. Wouldn't it?"

She feels her heart lift a little.

"Shouldn't you be asleep? It's 3 in the morning there."

"I couldn't," she whispers.

He's quiet again. "How's your family?"

"Amazing. Julian and Lucy's kids are gorgeous. They're so alive, and they each have their own growing personalities. It's fascinating."

"They're children Kenz, not studies," and the name catches her breath in her throat.

"I know," she mumbles, turning on her side. She shifts a hand down to her stomach and cups the tiny, barely visible bump.

"I think we should find out too," she tells him. "Then we can plan."

"Plan?"

He sounds sleepy, but his voice isn't dead. She knows the slight trail of interest that underlies his whispers.

"Names, Will. We need to name this baby."

"Couldn't we just call it kid?"

"I'm ignoring you said that."

"Good."

He yawns, but then sighs softly. "Tell your family I said hello," he mumbles.

"I will. What are your plans for Christmas?" she asks.

Will makes a funny noise down the phone line. "Nothing much. I think Maggie's trying to get everyone together for something. Most of the team aren't going anywhere for Christmas."

Mackenzie nods; she remembers Maggie's attempts to persuade them all to go to Midnight Mass.

"Do you remember the Christmas we went to Midnight Mass?" she asks him delicately.

She's been dreaming of it for weeks – the night had been freezing and Will's arms were strong and warm around her middle. They'd stood, pressed together amongst the people, and she can still hear Will's voice in her ear – crisp and deep and beautiful – mingling with the choir as they sang.

"Yeah, and then we slept right through lunch."

She giggles, can't help it, and squeezes her eyes shut. They'd spent all of Christmas day in bed.

"I've been dreaming about that," she tells him. "I miss it."

She won't tell him what she means.

He doesn't ask either, but then his voice is soft down the line and she thinks he must forgive her for her distance – for running away when things were growing between them. Running's always been a default for her, but his words are precious and they swirl around her heart.

"Next year we can take the baby," he murmurs.

Her heart sings _soon. Soon, soon, soon, soon, soon, soon._

* * *

She's an idiot, really.

She travels halfway across the globe to find her family and then when she arrives she realises she wants to go home.

It's midday on Christmas Eve and Mackenzie has her family gathered in the front room.

She's fidgeting, standing before them, and Julian looks half amused at her anxiety. Her mother and father are quiet and watching her carefully and she can hear the children making a fuss further in the house. One day they'll have a cousin, she thinks, and the four of them can play together.

"I'm going home," she tells them first, because that needs to be sorted immediately. "I have a flight booked for this evening, so I thought we could have a nice lunch today and then I'll give the children their presents, and then I'll go."

Her mother looks murderous, but Mackenzie is used to that expression. She's sure she wears it herself, sometimes.

"Mackenzie, what on earth are you doing?"

"I came here because I wanted to see you all, and I promise I'm going to come visit – soon in fact, I'm sure I'll be able to get a few weeks off in January," and that news seems to appease them all somewhat, "But I need to be home for Christmas."

She has plans, and the future kind of might depend on them.

"Mackenzie," her father prods, a frown etched on his face. "Why?"

She shuffles nervously. How on earth is she supposed to tell them? Just blurt it out? It has seemed to work with Will and Lucy. Speaking of, her sister-in-law is trying to hide her smile behind her hand.

"I'm pregnant," she finally says, a little shrug accompanying her words. "That's the main reason I came – I wanted to see you all, obviously, but I wanted to be here to tell you. But now I think I need to be home, to be with other people, and tell them."

She has two families, she's slowly learning – and one building and growing within her.

The room is silent and Julian looks like he's swallowed something. Her father is stunned and her mother is blank. She shifts nervously.

And then the room erupts. Eloise McHale rocks forward and pulls her tight and Mackenzie suspects there might be tears involved, because her mother's frenzied words are amongst hiccups. She's holding her tight and warm and god, Mackenzie's thinks, if she can be half the mother her own is she'll have done a good thing for this child.

"Congratulations," Julian beams, hugging her tight from behind.

She giggles and knocks her head into his shoulder in thanks. He still looks more stunned than anything – and then her gaze settles on her father. He's still and seated on the other side of the room, but then he smiles and she falls towards him.

"Is this a good thing?" he asks, and she could sob, because he always understands.

"Yes," she tells him, and she truly means it. "Yes, it is."

"I'm proud of you, both."

* * *

 

She's on a plane back to New York that afternoon, Amelia's hastily scribbled drawing settled on her lap. It's the entire family, all three children and the five adults – and Mackenzie's stomach has a little bump and an arrow pointing to it with the words baby.

Peter and James had seemed to understand the concept of a cousin – "Finally," Peter had rolled his eyes – and Amelia had been made happy by the thought of a baby. They three had been even more impressed with early presents, and Mackenzie had taken extra long holding them close and promising to be back in January for a proper visit.

She lands in the late evenings – it's cold and frosty and dark, much like London. The man at border control smiles warmly and greets her with a bright "Welcome home."

She agrees this time. Not that the man in London had been wrong. Just, New York is where her own family is growing, not where her first one is already formed. She gets a taxi to her apartment and throws her luggage in through the door, rushing back down to it without her gloves and regretting it as the chill settles in her fingertips. z

She stuffs them into her coat pocket and directs the driver – it had taken her a second to remember the name.

Outside the world is dark and bright – a clash of the deep, cool night and an array of multicoloured lights, blinking and dazzling amongst the trees. She breathes it all in deeply, her hands pressed to her stomach through her coat.

"Next year, darling," she whispers.

* * *

The church is busy and the murmur of voices rises to the eaves, echoing through the people and providing a busy humming atmosphere.

Will isn't quite sure why he agreed to this. It's cold. No, it's fucking freezing.

But Maggie had insisted and he didn't have any other plans, and then Mackenzie had had the audacity to ring and remind him of Christmas' long past, like his own little ghost.

"Why am I here?" Sloan asks to his right, and Will huffs a smile, taking in her beanie and the coat pulled up to her nose.

"Are you Christian?" he asks, brow crinkled. She shrugs.

"Not really? I think it was peer pressure."

Will nods in understanding. Maggie's convinced half the team to join them here.

Don is standing by her and Jim is by Neal. Kaylee is tucked up against his side, buried beneath a large scarf.

They're all cold and Will is bordering on miserable, but there's a warmth in his chest that's growing slightly – he's secretly glad they're all here.

"Excuse me," a voice sounds behind him – high and lilting and ridiculously accented.

His breath catches and he refuses to turn, instead he tries to catch Sloan's eye but she's deserted him in favour of Neal and Kaylee.

"Yes?" he asks, and then she comes into view.

Mackenzie Katherine McHale in a black coat and red scarf – no gloves, because she's an idiot, and she's shivering like her brains about to rattle from her skull.

 _Of course she's here,_  he thinks,  _of course she is._

Because if there's one thing he can count on, it's Mackenzie's ability to do the opposite of what he's expecting. It just feels so rare that the opposite is something that makes his heart sing.

"Come here," he mumbles, and can't help the smile itching at his cheeks. He pulls her forward and she pitches against his chest, snuggling into him. She wraps her arms around the inside of his open coat and her cold fingers press into his back – her lips linger against his throat and Will can't help but press a kiss to her forehead. He shuffles them from side to side and when she goes to pull back he refuses to let her.

"It's cold," he tells her quietly, "and you don't have gloves."

"I was in a rush," she tells him, head titled up.

It would be very easy to kiss her, he supposes. But now's not the time.

Sloan has spotted her and Jim and Maggie are swooping in and Mackenzie greets them all with a large smile. She turns her head to the side and rests it against Will's chest be he refuses to let her go and she's nestled into him, chattering to the group.

He's sure they look odd but he really couldn't care less in this moment.

People can think what they like.

The organ swells and the church erupts in a chorus;  _Ode To Joy_  soaring to the eaves overhanging and swirling around his heart. She nestles into his warm chest and he squeezes her middle – risks everything and presses a kiss to the soft skin beneath her ear; a warm spike against the cold that's settled in their bones and no one is paying attention to them now.

She hums and he gathers her closer.

"Merry Christmas, darling," he murmurs.


	5. A New Morning, Part 1

His bed is warm on Christmas morning; like a furnace down the middle – hot and snug and cosy, and he doesn't want to move from this moment. He can't move, he soon discovers, limbs heavy and content but he blinks open, muzzy in the dark room, and feels the heavy weight of another person pressed back against his chest. She's resting in his arms – his hands curled above her stomach, and he freezes for a moment before -

 _Mackenzie_. Yes.

Now he remembers.

His arms are snug beneath her breasts and she's wearing only a light camisole and her underwear – she's radiating heat down his torso but her toes are cold and tucked against his calf and when he ventures his nose out from where it's pressed to the back of her neck, it's to discover that his bedroom is  _freezing_.

He grumbles and shifts under the blanket, twisting his legs around until he's pressed closer into her body and the heavy sigh she lets out puffs against the curve of his forearm. He presses a kiss to the back of her neck and lets his eyes drift shut once more.

* * *

She's dead on her feet in his arms, her entire weight resting against him, and Will would be annoyed at her for being out so late and in the cold if not for the gentle rub of her finger against his skin where her hands have burrowed underneath his jumper. She's buried her fingers under the three layers of clothing at his back and is drawing tiny patterns against his skin - hot and soft and tingling down his spine - and at least it's freezing in the packed church because it means he has an excuse when he shivers.

He hasn't let her go throughout the service, and as the minutes have ticked by she's settled further into the crook of his arm. They're pressed thigh to thigh and his nose is resting against her hair and her hands are tucked beneath his jacket to keep them warm – Sloan keeps sending him exaggerated eyebrow movements and each time she does he scowls back at her. They can think what they want, he decides. If he wants to hold his EP on Christmas then he will.

By the end of the service Mackenzie hasn't moved and when he glances down it's to find her asleep – face soft and blushed red and completely quiet. He chuckles and presses his nose into her hairline – he'd carry her from the church if he didn't think she'd murder him.

"Mackenzie, wake up," he murmurs instead, "Time to wake up."

She shuffles and sighs, and rubs her nose into his chest. When she blinks open and gazes up at him, eyes round and blinking, he rocks forward and presses a kiss to her forehead – after all, it's Christmas.

And when the rest of the team have shuffled off ahead of them and the church has begun to empty he whispers soft in her ear.

"Come home with me?"

She answers.

"Yes."

It's approaching mid morning when he wakes next and Mackenzie is still resting in his arms. There's dull light streaming through the windows, and the soft edges run down her cheek; it's not cold enough for snow this Christmas, but the outside world is still freezing. He slowly untangles his hands from around Mackenzie, her body shifting beneath his fingers – her ribs and the soft curve of her breast and the sliver of warm skin where her camisole has ridden up – and she shuffles around, seeking his body. He lays a hand across her side and squeezes, a silent promise that he'll be back.

He stumbles around the room and into his bathroom, reaching into the shower and turning it on without thought; and then leant up against the counter, he examines his face in the mirror.

His hair is dishevelled and really greyer than blonde, though hair and makeup do a good job making him look less old when he's on television. He leans closer and pokes at his cheek, grumbling as his eyes ache, still bleary.

The room is steadily filling with steam and it fogs up the mirror, leaving his face obscured. He should shave, but it's Christmas, and the only person he's seeing is Mackenzie. If she has a problem with the way he looks than she'll have to deal with it on her own because he's not dealing with personal grooming when the tiles beneath his feet are chilling his toes and he doesn't have to face the public.

Instead he steps into the shower and the hot water thrills down his spine, electrifying his mind and jolting the last remnants of sleep from his addled temples. He rocks forward to let his forehead rest on the tiles and with a loud groan feels his muscles flex in thanks.

Mackenzie will be awake now, he ponders, grabbing a bar of soap from the little shelf on the wall and rubbing it lazily into his skin. She was never a heavy sleeper – more often than not she was worse than him; waking at the drop of a needle and tossing and turning throughout the night. It was very rare that she would settle into a good, bone deep sleep - and even rarer that they both would.

He can imagine her now blinking owlishly beneath the bed sheets, curling out across the mattress and stretching her limbs – all long and smooth and deliciously sleepy. She'll sit up a little, looking around the room, and wonder where he is until the sound of the shower breaks through the fog of morning.

Once upon a time she would have shuffled across the floorboards to join him; as it is, he's not sure what she'll do. Perhaps stay in bed, or wander into the kitchen. Maybe he'll find her with a mug of tea, or a bowl of dry cereal – or perhaps she'll be gone.

He hopes she stays, he thinks, despite the awkward murmur of his heart at the thought. They'd crossed a boundary last night when she'd arrived at the church and he'd opened his arms to her – inviting her home was an after thought, really. Everything important had happened in the second it took for her to dissolve in his arms.

He rubs the last of the soap from his body and steps out into the bathroom, shivering in the cool air until the towel has been wrapped around his body. He dries quickly, throwing the pair of sweats he'd gone to bed in back on, and foregoing a shirt to instead poke his head back around the door into his bedroom.

Mackenzie is still there but she's curled into the spot where he'd slept, her legs tucked up to her stomach and her hair a mess across his pillow.

And really, he thinks with a frown, could she make this any harder for him?

He makes coffee in the kitchen and is halfway to his bedroom when he remembers her reaction to it last time. He pauses, standing awkwardly in the doorway with two red mugs and then steps backward, then thinks better of it and steps forward, but then the sight of her curled up against his pillow wins and he winds up back in the kitchen pouring one of the mugs down the sink and flicking the kettle back on to make tea.

He doesn't have it often, but occasionally he winds up with a box of tea bags in his shopping and doesn't quite know where they came from – sometimes he thinks his mind forgets she isn't woven into his life.

But he thinks he still has a few bags of earl grey at the back of a cupboard, and from memory that was something she drank.

"What are you doing?" she asks, and he drops the box on his hand. He glances around from where he's reaching to the back of the cupboard, and Mackenzie is leant against the kitchen door, all sleepy and confused and god, he breathes quickly, completely out of it in the morning.

She's breathtaking, warm and muzzy and her hair is curled on one side. Her camisole falls to the tops of her thighs and her legs leave nothing to the imagination – especially when he doesn't need one – he already knows exactly how they feel.

"Making tea," he tells her, rocking back on the balls of his feet. He pauses with his hand hovering over the kettle. Eventually she'll notice that she's in her underwear and he's not wearing a shirt, and then she'll grow stiff and reserved, but for now she's still leant against the doorframe and it's taking all his willpower not to turn her around and take her back to bed.

"You drink Earl Grey, yes?" he asks instead.

She makes a surprised noise, a little huff, and then smiles, nodding at him. She squeezes her eyes shut and Will can see the consciousness seeping in – soon she'll stiffen and panic, so he hurries to pour her tea before she runs.

He passes her the mug without word and then she surprises him by curling up on a chair at the benchtop. She has a leg tucked beneath her body and the position has pulled her camisole tight. There's a tiny, imperceptible curve to her stomach and Will can't remember if that was always there. He's pretty sure it wasn't. He's pretty sure she mentioned she was beginning to show, as well, meaning that's...yeah.

He bites his lip hard because he'd spent the entire night with her wrapped in his arms and not once did he think to sneak a brush at her stomach.

"How was London?" he asks, settling in the chair across from her. The cuffs of her camisole fall to her wrists and she was the edge of one tucked in around her fingers. It's completely disarming and Will hates that he notices her details. Usually he notices other people's hair, or nose or smiles. But from the beginning he's noticed the curve of Mackenzie's throat, or the freckle on her right earlobe, or her penchant for wearing higher heels with skirts on Mondays.

She smiles at him across the rim of her mug and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "It was lovely, actually. Julian's children have grown and they're wonderful – James is insane and Amelia followed me around all day, she was gorgeous. And my parents were glad to see me, so there were no awkward questions."

Will is well aware of the precarious relationships within the McHale family. It's a love born out kinship, but tested by an intellectual respect that at times clashes. He'd been privy to an argument between Mackenzie and her father over UN involvement in illegal immigration some years ago – she argues as passionately with her parents as she does with Will; and maybe that should have been a sign of her feelings.

"How are they?" he asks, because he really did like her father. He was a good man, an intelligent man, and Will has always respected him. Mackenzie hums lovingly and Will isn't brave enough to catch her eye.

"He's well. Enjoying retirement."

Will snorts, "He wrote a paper on Syria that was published a month ago. I hardly call that retirement."

And Mackenzie's eyebrow climbs. "You read that?" she asks, instead of commenting on her father, and Will finds himself without words – a terrible and uncommon predicament.

He sighs, and in an unprecedented move – he's usually much more stubborn – opts for honesty. "I always liked your father, Mackenzie."

She hums again but doesn't speak, instead sipping her tea gently.

"Did you tell them?" he asks, finally, because that had been half the reason she went, surely. He picks up his empty coffee mug to give his hands something to do, stepping back around the kitchen bench and opening the fridge to rummage in its contents. He has bacon and eggs, but he doesn't really feel like cooking, and there's a box of cereal in his pantry. Should he offer her breakfast, or have they reached the point where she can find it for herself?

"I did, yes. Before I came back. They were surprised, but happy," she tells him, and her words are clipped – short. He pauses at the fridge and turns towards her, frowning.

"Were they?"

"Yes, of course," she shrugs half-heartedly. She seems to deflate a little, her eyes lingering over his shoulder on the wall, and he chases her gaze, willing her to be honest. _Please_ , Mackenzie – he thinks. It's so much harder if he has to work the truth from her.

"They were happy Will, honestly," and she smiles this time, cheeks flushed. "I was just thinking about everything else," she sighs, her smile tight and lingering; and Will can see the terror there.

All this time and he'd thought they'd worked past terror to an abstract, dull fear.

He abandons his journey through the fridge and walks back to the bench, sitting down across from her and leaning forward.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks, feeling braver than he actually is.

Mackenzie shrugs but then nods, her mouth trembling slightly.

He reaches across the bench and takes her hand; tugging her upwards and out of the kitchen, back down the hall to his room.

They should probably do this in the lounge, he thinks, or perhaps they should have stayed where they were – but the morning is walking a delicate line between stifling awkwardness and an intimacy he can't define, and he thinks that going back to bed will do them well.

Not that he knows what he's doing, he reflects, as she climbs back on to the covers and settles against his sheets. He pauses awkwardly in the middle of the room and she's watching him closely, and really, what the fuck are they doing? He's acting as if they can just launch into a deep discussion, but the last time they did anything remotely like this was years ago and he's pretty sure they were both naked at the time.

He bites his lip and settles himself on the bed and then Mackenzie has curled up on her side facing him. He glances her way but refuses to hold her gaze, sighing loudly in the quiet room.

"Will?" she prompts, and he wishes he'd continued his search for breakfast.

"I don't know how to do this," he tells her, eyeing her carefully. He doesn't quite know where her head is at at the moment – not to mention she's had two international flights in the space of four days, and aren't you not supposed to fly when pregnant? Or is that just when you're about to have the child...

"Neither do I."

"No, I mean I don't know how to talk about this."

She stiffens beside him and he hates that he can feel that; that she's leant close enough to him that he can feel the slight turn in her body.

"What do you want to talk about?" he offers instead, throwing her the initiative.

She picks at the edge of the blanket covering his bed and Will wants to lean over and nudge her shoulder – perhaps jolt her into saying something. She'd been so warm and cosy this morning in his bed, quick to snuggle close to him and easy with her affection – but now she's quiet and guarded and bordering on acerbic.

"Mackenzie," he prods, and his voice is a little too desperate. She blinks up at him and then rocks forward, burying her head in his shoulder, and it's such an unusual action that he can't help but cradle the back of her head and pull her close.

"What are we going to do?" she asks, muffled against his collarbone, and perhaps this is better. He can feel her, and hold her, but he can't see her. It's intimacy without the intensity – and they need that.

But he still can't answer her question. "Mackenzie?"

She huffs, and he can feel the words burning between them, just waiting for one of them to be brave. "I mean what are we going to do when the baby is born. What are we going to do in the future? Are we going to split custody, or are you only going to visit, or are we doing this together? Does the kid have a room at both our houses? What name does it take?"

He pauses her midway through because when he'd invited her onto the bed he'd through they'd maybe hit one, or two of these questions – but Mackenzie is breathing deep and shaking against his chest and apparently they're making their way through everything.

"Breathe," he tells her, instead, and tries to sort through to the beginning.

"The kid can have your name," he starts, because that's easiest and not really something he's ever considered, and to be honest as long as the kid is healthy and marginally happy and sleeps through the night, he's not fussy. Though, now that he has thought about it, he wouldn't mind someone continuing his own name, so maybe both, "Or –"

"We are not naming our child McAvoy-McHale," she grumbles, and he chuckles against the crown of her head.

"It can have McAvoy," she decides, and he doesn't question her. He's sure they'll have this discussion again, but as long as her minds at ease now he's not going to stir up anything.

"And regarding custody" he prompts, though he really doesn't want to think about it. He sighs, because ideally there is an answer to all their problems – ones regarding the baby and those not – but it's not something either one is ready for, even if they're light-years ahead of where they were a year and a half ago.

"Can we table that discussion for later?" he asks, and Mackenzie shuffles against him, almost as if she can sense his thoughts. He kind of hopes she can – hopes she understands that what he wants is for their child to have one home. One family. Two parents who are there, together. He just isn't quite sure how to reach that.

"Yeah, okay," she tells him, however, and he thinks perhaps she understands.

"I'm here, though. Please know that," he sighs.

She nods, and her body is warm and sleepy against him. It's barely 11 in the morning and they've only been awake an hour, but Will can already feel her drifting off to sleep and he thinks it's a marvellous idea.

"So your family were happy?" he prods, because she's blinking wearily and achingly honest when teetering on the edge of sleep.

"I thought Julian was going to cry. Mum did cry. It was all very dramatic. Decidedly not British. I loved it," she smiles, warm and content, and Will tucks her hair behind her ear and kisses the crown of her forehead, pulling her against his torso.

"Good," he tells her, but she's already breathing deep. He pulls them gently down the bed so that his neck is resting against the pillows comfortably, and with an arm wrapped around her, lets them drift back to sleep.


	6. A New Morning, Part 2

Will wakes around midday and instantly notices the cold – his feet are sticking out from beneath the blanket and he hadn't worn socks to bed the night before; but more importantly, Mackenzie is gone from his arms - sometime in the past few hours she must have slipped from his grasp.

He's rolled down the mattress and is now lying on his stomach, hugging his pillow to his chest with his head resting at the top. The bed is still warm, however, and when he reaches out a hand his fingers brush against soft, firm skin – Mackenzie's thigh, he realises – and she startles a little, sucking in a sharp breath.

Will lifts his head sleepily and blinks, willing the fuzziness away, and finds her sitting upright next to him, leant against the headboard and still only in her camisole and underwear, with a book balanced on her lap and a banana in hand.

She lifts it to her mouth and glances down at him in the same motion, biting into the flesh delicately and chewing slowly as he struggles to raise his head.

"Where'd you find a banana?" he asks, because it's the first thing that comes to mind. He's certain he didn't have any fruit earlier this morning, but Mackenzie merely crinkles her brow and lets her gaze slip back to her book, silent.

He studies her a moment, letting his head drift back to the pillow, and it's an odd angle to watch her from. She's quiet and delicate as she leafs through the pages, so at odds with her usual countenance.

He wasn't kidding when he asked her months ago if she was capable of silence – Mackenzie McHale is always in constant motion; moving and talking and bustling through life. She has a restless energy that exudes around her, and if he's honest it's half the reason he fell in love with her; why he loves her.

She so  _alive,_  he ponders. Alive and quixotic and loud and restless; she brings colour and energy to his otherwise monotonous existence, and he thinks that's what he's been missing the past three years – she's what makes his life  _interesting_.

She's endlessly fascinating, and he finds himself drawn to her – her mind and her heart and her body.

Take for instance; now she has her legs curled up on the mattress, one tucked beneath her bottom and the other spread down the bed - the tips of her toes are tucked beneath the edge of a blanket and the smooth expanse of bare skin is pale all the way up to her thighs. She has one arm of her camisole pulled down around her fingertips, but the other is pushed up almost to her elbow, like she can't quite decide if she's hot or cold, and he finds that small detail utterly charming.

Her hair is messy, curled softly at the ends and it falls across her cheek and dances across her forehead whenever she moves her head. Her eyes flicker delicately as she reads and her lips are parted softly, cherry red and damp as her tongue peaks out to lick.

Will turns his head until his face is pressed into the pillow because she's gorgeous and in his bed and the last time she was here, she was exhausted and telling him she was pregnant – but the time before that,  _well._

The time before that she was lithe and long and tangled beneath him and above him; and her lips were bitten and her hair was a mess and he was as close to her as they've ever been.

He can feel the blood rush around his head and he's willing his mind and heart to stop competing, when a gentle, hesitant touch to the back of his neck sends tingles shooting down his spine.

Her fingers, delicate and cool, rub slowly at the nape of his neck and then tangle in his hair, running through the messy grey locks and he can't help it; he groans into the pillow, because surely she's going to be the death of him.

And he thinks fuck it, she's warm and oddly calm and her fingers are drifting through his fucking hair; and if that isn't the most innocuous, intimate gesture – so filled with familiarity and love – then he doesn't know what is.

He turns and presses his face into her hip and lets his lips seek bare skin, nipping softly before settling, and with her smell intoxicating and her touch gentle, he lets them both be.

* * *

They come to a mutual, unspoken agreement around one o'clock that they won't be moving from the bed in the foreseeable future, but Will is hungry and he suspects she is too, and he remembers seeing a flyer somewhere advertising free pizza delivery on Christmas Day from a place a few blocks down the road.

He thinks he should probably lift his head and find his phone, but Mackenzie's fingers are still resting at the nape of his neck, and at some point she'd started reading from her book aloud – _Anne of Green Gables_ , he'd discovered, and he doesn't even remember owning that one. Her voice is gentle and husky and he's always loved her cadence – her accent lifts and falls like a melody, so unlike his own rumbling one – it's like a symphony that reflects her very nature.

He's lazy and drifting and his muscles are jelly against the soft mattress; he's steadfastly ignoring what ever is happening between them because it feels a lot like what they had once upon a time, but also completely different – because back then they'd wouldn't have shied from intimacy – but now there's a gentle hesitance that he finds intoxicating; it's like they're sidestepping around the other in a constant bid to not upset equilibrium, but at the same time utterly enamored with the other, and it shows in these small touches and glances.

It's a bit like those first, few moments of falling in love, and he doesn't know what's changed in the past few days that's allowed him to think like that.

But he thinks perhaps it was inevitable.

Whatever this child brings to their life – and he's positive it's going to throw the world upside down – it's put them in a position where he can no longer refuse to deal with what happened four years ago. Can't keep dancing his hand over the flame, nor bang his head up against brick walls.

He was right when he told – no yelled, at Charlie and Dr. Habib – what happened between he and Mackenzie isn't something he can just  _get over_. But for so long, it was what defined their relationship. Every time he looked at her, spoke with her, worked with her – it was to the constant reminder that she'd destroyed what was real.

But he thinks perhaps this child is beginning to erode that.

Now when he thinks of Mackenzie he sees a possible future, as ridiculous as that sounds - not merely their past – and he could continue to ignore what happened, continue to refuse to deal with it – or, he could move on.

Start living his life as if he's actually a part of it, and stop kidding himself that that doesn't involve Mackenzie.

Because he's pretty sure what they share now has the potential to be everything.

When he peaks an eye open it's to find her leaning towards him; her smile is fond and her eyes are glazed and she looks beautiful – he thinks yes, this could definitely be my future – yes, I think I can trust you.

"What are you thinking?" she asks, because she likes to hear him speak. She prods and coddles, but he understands, because words hold meaning for her in a way they never have for him.

He's so introverted when it comes to his feelings – what he's thinking and what he wants are more important in his heart than through words – because words can be faked, twisted. He should know, he's a journalist and a lawyer – but the heart can't be faked, so he offers her a small smile in recompense.

"Just reaching some conclusions," he tells her, because it would be cruel to give her nothing.

They're silent a moment and she rolls her eyes at his reticence, but then she tips her head forward to lean against the back of his bare shoulder blade and all thoughts and epiphanies fly from his mind.

He freezes and then turns, and her head tumbles onto his chest – she presses her lips to the bare skin above his heart and he rumbles something intelligible, tugging her close. He thinks perhaps if they just stay silent and let everything exist through touch, then they'll be fine.

"Lunch?" he asks, as her stomach rumbles.

And she nods, laughing, and rests her ear to his chest. "Yes please."

* * *

 

Apparently turkey pizza is a Christmas Day delicacy, and Will is feeling brave, so he remains stoic as the deliveryman passes the box to him.

Mackenzie is less optimistic and hovers at the doorway of his bedroom, leant up against the frame, her legs twisted beneath her and still in only her camisole.

He really should find her some pants lest he do something stupid.

"Shall we?" he asks, and she wrinkles her nose. But she follows him on light feet towards the dining table and tucks her feet up underneath her as she sits. He passes her a plate and she pushes it back towards him, a clear sign that he is to cut the pizza, so he picks up a knife and delicately slices down the middle.

"Do you think this counts as Christmas lunch?" he asks softly, and she snorts through closed lips, giggling as he slides a slice of pizza onto her plate and pushes it back towards her.

"I think this is probably offensive, actually, having pizza instead of a proper cooked meal."

"Should have stayed with your family," he throws back, and there's an awkward pause that follows, because they haven't actually discussed why she returned two days after leaving.

Will takes a bite of his pizza to keep his hands and mouth occupied, but Mackenzie is watching him closely, and he can't help but meet her gaze. The room is silent and oddly oppressive and it astounds him that half an hour ago he was lying with her head practically in his lap, but now she's looking at him as if he's grown a third eye.

"I don't know why I came back," she offers, and he nods mutely.

"No, I do," she retracts – and that's so very Mackenzie like.

"I felt like I had to go there. To see my parents and to tell them in person. I wanted to feel my mother's arms around me when I told her she was going to be a grandparent again. And I'm glad I did."

There's a pause and Will can't help but wish he hadn't ordered pizza, because it's greasy and really no substitute for an actual meal and it means his hands are sticky and can't reach out towards her. He picks up a napkin from the middle of the table and wipes his fingers, but Mackenzie is watching the space over his left shoulder, staring into the distance as she speaks.

"But the whole time I was there I felt like I was missing something. I think I was missing you. Which is ridiculous, because I'm always missing you," and the last part is said softly, offhandedly – she brushes her fringe from her eyes, and her cheeks are flushed, and he can tell she's trying to convince him that it doesn't matter.

"I miss you too," he tells her, because it's Christmas and he's being brave and his hands are dry enough to reach towards her now. He brushes his fingertips to her camisole-covered arm and she shivers, smiling thankfully at him.

"The pizza is terrible. Don't eat it," he adds moments later, and she crinkles her forehead at him like he's insane.

"Did you honestly think I was going to eat any of it anyway?" she asks.

And he knows her well enough to know the answer.

* * *

 

"What movie were you watching that night?" she yells around the corner.

He's in the kitchen, washing the last of the pizza grim from their plates, and trying to find some bread or pasta so that he can make them a decent meal. He's still not sure where Mackenzie resurrected that banana from, but she always understood his kitchen better than he had – his cupboards are still organized the way she likes to sort everything and he's sure that if he asked her she'd have an easier time navigating it than he does.

"What are you talking about?" he yells back, pulling a tea towel from the top drawer.

Mackenzie's head pokes around the side of the doorway and he notices that she's pulled her hair back. It puzzles him a moment, because it's still cold in the apartment, no matter what he does, and she's not wearing socks, so surely she can't be too warm. Not to mention it reminds him of the moments before they go on air when she'll pull her hair back and clip it behind her ears. His only real regret over hiring her is that he never gets to sit back and  _watch_  her work. Sure, he hears her in his ear (and isn't that wonderful and tantalizing and terrible) but he's never been afforded the opportunity to  _see_  her control the broadcast.

He's sure it must be fascinating – he's been told time and time again that she's amazing at her job. Perhaps he should suggest she do some work for Elliott or one of the afternoon shows, just so he can sit back and watch her...

He files that thought away and tries to process what she's referring to.

"The night I was here, to tell you about," and she waves uncertainly to her stomach. He arches an eyebrow, because surely they've reached the point where they can say the word  _baby_ , but at the same time he understands, because it still feels ridiculous that they're having one. Really, they're the last two people on earth who should be entrusted with a human being to raise together.

"Rosalie," he tells her, and it's one of his old favorites simply because it's so insane. "I was watching Rosalie when you were here."

She nods quickly and leans more heavily against the doorway. "I've not seen that one before," she tells him, and then, "It's a pretty name," quietly, almost to herself.

He pauses drying the plate and sets it down on the counter, turning towards her, "No."

"What?" she asks quickly.

"We're not naming the child Rosalie."

She crinkles her brow as if he's crazy, but he can see the longing in her eyes, so he sets the tea towel down and walks towards her.

She leans backwards, surprised, but he merely grabs her shoulders and steers her towards the lounge, pushing her down gently once they reach it.

"My mothers name was Rosemary, and I'm not having a child that reminds me of my mother every damn minute."

Mackenzie snorts quickly and then brings a hand over her mouth, trying to hide her smile, but she nods in understanding and he deflates, pleased they've sorted that out.

"Eloise and Edward are out as well."

"And Claire, and Michael, and Annie."

"And James, Peter and Amelia."

"That still leaves us with a lot of names," he mutters, rubbing a hand to his forehead. "And when did you decide it was a girl?"

Mackenzie smiles and gives a half shrug. "I haven't, I keep switching. But we find out at my next appointment and that's less than two weeks away."

"Why did your parents name you Mackenzie," he asks, leaning back against the lounge with a hand thrown over the arm. He studies her as she ponders the question, the slope of her nose and the curve of her cheek. Her bright eyes and messy hair and the slender run down her neck.

He's always been fascinated by her parent's choice of name – it's such a strong name, Mackenzie, often used for males – whilst Julian is much softer, yet what they gave their son. He thinks it's a wonderful dichotomy, and so very like Edward and Eloise McHale.

"Honestly I've no idea. At one point my father wanted to name me Winston if I was a boy, but my mother refused. They were lucky I was a girl or it might have torn the family apart"

And Will nods, smiling. Of course he would. A conservative Brit would want to name their child after a politician.

"I always liked Samuel, however," she offers, and Will considers it. It's a nice name, a strong name.

"Why?" he asks, intrigued.

"My mother used to read me poetry when I was little, I spent so much time flying between countries with them, and it helped settle me. Samuel Taylor Coleridge was my favourite. My mother adored  _Rime of the Ancient Mariner_ , and I could recite  _Kubla Khan_  before I could even spell it."

And Will can just imagine her, small and fairy like, whispering the poets magic words into the night.

"It's a nice name," he offers, and Mackenzie sighs, nodding.

"It is."

"We should keep it in mind. In honour of your childhood, and your mother."

Mackenzie looks at him oddly, her lips pursed, but then she smiles and nods and Will can sense something building.

"But we keep Rosalie in case it's a girl."

And he can't help but laugh, because of course she would demand that.

"If you insist."

Mackenzie tucks her feet closer to her body and brings her arms around her knees, hugging them tight. A few more months and she won't be able to do that any longer, he thinks. A few more months and it will be obvious to all that their child is there.

"Samuel McAvoy," she whispers, and it hits Will suddenly that they possibly just named their child.

Shit, he thinks. Shouldn't there be fireworks or something. Or Champagne?

Only he's not a big fan of champagne, so he thinks he might pour himself a glass of scotch.

He's halfway towards the small bar tray in the dining room before he realizes he's left Mackenzie sitting in the lounge. She's staring at him wide eyed and confused and he chuckles, glancing down at his shoes before up at her.

"I like it," he tells her quickly. "I like it a lot actually. But I need a drink."

And he's never said that he wasn't blunt.

Mackenzie merely rolls her eyes and settles back against the pillows, resting her chin on her hands and wriggling her toes.

* * *

 

She's sleepy by 6 o'clock, and that's ridiculous because they've spent most of the day sleeping.

Will isn't sure if he's spent Christmas this relaxed in years – usually he's by himself; very rarely in Nebraska – and then there had been those two years when they'd been together when they'd spent the entire day curled in bed.

"Sleep?" he asks her, jiggling his shoulder ever so slightly where her head is resting against him. She has an arm slung across his stomach and it's burning through his jumper, but the soft curl of her fingertips against his skin is delightful against the cold.

"Hmmm?"

"Sleep, Mackenzie. You're exhausted."

"No I'm not," she grumbles, but yawns to the contrary.

She sighs regretfully and tips her forehead against the curve of his shoulder, rubbing her head there from side to side before finally pulling back. He's silent as she does so, refusing to believe that he's blushing (but he is, because she's sleepy and affectionate and adorable, dammit) and her wide brown eyes meet his in the dimmed light, blown open and deep.

"I need to ring my parents, actually," she mutters finally, shuffling away from him.

He takes a moment to breathe and then leans back to grab at the phone lying on the coffee table. He'd rung his sister Claire earlier and spoke to her briefly, promising to be in contact again soon – at some point he needs to tell his own family about the baby, but that will only lead to lots of raised eyebrows and punches to his shoulder, not to mention Annie will probably laugh, because that's the type of sister she is and always will be.

"Here," he mumbles, because the apartment is quiet and that seems to dictate whispers, and presses the phone into her palm.

She accepts it gratefully and as she slips from the lounge, Will stretches back out, feeling his muscles flex and joints pop. He's getting old, he thinks. How the hell is he supposed to chase after a child?

"Hi Dad," he hears Mackenzie all but whisper. Her voice is soft and warm – familiar, he thinks, in a way it only grows when she is completely unguarded.

"I'm fine. The flight was fine. I promise."

There's a pause, and Will wonders what it must be like. Having your daughter live on the other side of the world, only seeing and speaking to her on select occasions. And then one day she shows up, promising a long vacation, only to tell you she's pregnant and then leaving the next day.

That's probably grounds for a lot of worry, he thinks. He's pretty sure he'd be entirely pissed off.

"I'm at Will's," she says, and he glances up quickly to catch the deep blush in her cheeks as she ducks her head. She rolls her eyes – a patent McHale motion – and then pushes her fringe back behind her ears.

" _No_ , dad," she sighs in amusement. "We've spent the day talking, that's all."

And Will doesn't want to know what Edward McHale supposed they were getting up to.

"It's been nice," she finally murmurs, and Will tips his head back on the lounge, thinking yes, it has been. Aside from the disastrous lunch.

"I have to go, but tell everyone I said hello, and Merry Christmas, and that I'll see them all in a few weeks, okay?"

Mackenzie laughs warmly, but Will is still caught on the i _n a few weeks_ , because when did she decide she was going back to London? He supposes she did promise her family a proper visit, and he really doesn't have the right to be annoyed – but he can't help the small lump rise in his throat when he thinks about it. It's not as bad as when she announced she was going away over Christmas – perhaps because since then they've talked; they've grown closer and set some rules, not to mention there was the whole returning on Christmas Eve situation.

It makes him hope that maybe she's in this just as much for them, as for the baby. Though if he's honest, ever since it was revealed she never received his first message, he's begun to suspect that she's been there for him from the start.

"How is everyone?" he asks as she walks back towards him.

She runs her hand along the curve of his shoulders as she walks around him back to the lounge, and it's small moments like that – touches and glances and smiles – that remind him why everything is worth it eventually.

"They're well. They had a nice Christmas and Santa was kind to the children. You should hear them, they're so wonderful, but so loud. We're really not prepared for this at all," she tells him, tongue in cheek and her hand sweeps low over her stomach – Will freezes and watches her, unable to look away – and eventually she grows self conscious and removes her hand.

He looks up immediately but his smile is so warm, so utterly unchanging, no matter how hard he might want to not look like an idiot, that she blushes and ducks her head, smiling too.

"Can I come with you?"

She tucks her head against the back of the lounge, but her mouth turns up in question. "When?" she asks.

"To the doctors, when you find out. Seeing as we've stumbled upon names. I'd like to be there when we have some idea."

She snorts and shakes her head, but nods at him quickly in agreement. "Yes, please."

"Good."

There's a soft moment of quiet; warm smiles are shared, and then Mackenzie tips forward and burrows into his chest, wrapping her arms around his waist and squeezing tightly. He lets out a small grunt and then runs a hand down the length of her back.

"We'll be alright," she tells him, and it's the first time she's been the one assuring the other. Usually it's him whispering promises into her hair.

He digs his fingers into the firm flesh of her back and settles back on the lounge, kicking his feet up on the coffee table.

"Merry Christmas," he murmurs back, because it is.


	7. For Time Has Passed, My Dear

It's a little strange, definitely different, but in the few days that span between Christmas and New Years, Will wakes each morning to a wisp of vanilla, soft tendrils of brown tickling his nose and the warm press of a body curled tight down his torso.

Mackenzie stutters into waking with little snuffles and sighs and Will holds her tight around the waist, toes curled in the sheets at the edge of the mattress and silently prays this isn't the morning she decides she should go home; wants to fall asleep after a long days work with her soft body each night and wake to her muzzy bright eyes more than is possibly healthy.

They shuffle around each other without words – Will presses his cheeks into the shower tiles and groans in frustration as the water pounds down around his shoulders and Mackenzie tip toes bare foot across the kitchen to pour herself tea. She dresses in the spare room but has no real qualm about passing by him in her underwear – they've seen each other stripped naked in so many different ways that little slithers of skin and such intimacy hardly bothers her.

It drives Will insane, however, so he begins running his hand around her bare waist when she passes him by, just to test the delicate shiver down her spine and the dark flash of her eyes as she falters.

Work slows over the Christmas break – everyone on holidays and the snow falling thickly – there's very little New York and the surrounding areas can get up to in such weather – and the rest of the country seems to follow and take a deep breath and calm, and Will wishes the rest of the world would follow.

He sits behind the news desk and discusses the pass over of leadership in North Korea, the continuing unrest in Syria, in Yemen, in Egypt, in Turkey; takes a deep breath each evening and a swig of whiskey because how the fuck can the world be so messed up during this week? How the fuck is he reporting on the deaths of worshipers in Nigeria who'd simply gone to church to pray?

It's in these moments, late at night with his tie slung low around his throat and the press of his dress shirt like an iron cage across his chest, that the thought of another soul sleeping by him is enough to wipe away four years of heartbreak and betrayal and mistrust - and perhaps that should terrifying him, that he's finally finding it so easy to forgive her – but he's steadily realising that he has a choice to move forward and its in the hesitant knock at his door and the slope of her neck and the curl of her lips when she slips into his office late in the evening.

"Ready to go?" she asks, hesitating by the corner of his desk and her voice is small but hopeful, as it has been every night she's sought him, as if she's afraid this time he'll shake his head and say no.

"Yeah," he smiles instead, and shakes his thick coat from the stand by his door to pull over his shoulders.

Mackenzie has a bright red scarf wrapped around her throat and red mittens that should look ridiculous, but she somehow gets away with them because she's always been half-nymph. Utterly enchanting to behold and admire and god forbid you fall under the spell of Mackenzie McHale; because there's no escaping it, Will's learnt.

He stops by his door and she swivels back towards him, just a few feet into the main newsroom and Will really should have more self control, but he can't help but reach out and tuck the strands of her scarf that have fallen loose in and under her coat. Her breath hitches and Will smiles knowingly, running his hands along her shoulders and down the long expanse of her arms to tickle at her fingers and Mackenzie is left breathless, two red smudges high on her cheek and the most darling smile hesitating to break free. Will squeezes her hands tight and then guides her softly towards the hallway.

His hand lingers on the small of her back and he hopes she can feel it – hopes she understands that his touches and his smiles and his caresses are his apology – a way to say  _yes, I forgive you. Yes, I want this – not just this child, but you and me._

_Yes, this is happening._

He can't say the words yet, but he can feel them and he can live them, so he tucks his arm around her waist tight in the empty elevator and presses a kiss to her hair and lets them be.

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

* * *

 

Sloan notices this moment, Will's gentle smile and warm touches and the radiant beam of Mackenzie trying to stop from giggling like a schoolgirl.

It's late at night and she's usually gone before them but Don had been in the doorway talking to Maggie as she'd tried to leave and so far she's managed to stick to her promise of not making eye contact with him, let alone walk near him, so she'd hid in her office until he'd shuffled off to run the ten o'clock show.

Now the newsroom is emptier and Will and Mackenzie have slipped into the elevator – Sloan trailing behind them like a lost soul, eyes wide with disbelief, because Will's arm just trailed around Mackenzie's waist and she's leant up against him and he's pressing his lips to her hair and  _holy hell_ , Sloan thinks,  _when the fuck did that happen?_

* * *

 

"William!"

Will startles on his way to his office and barely catches sight of Sloan before she's grabbed his coat sleeve and dragged him inside.

With a flourish she presses the door closed and locks it before turning on him, body still pressed to the door, hands on either side and her eyes crazy.

Will sets his briefcase down on his desk and prays that the market hasn't crashed.

"I don't usually interfere with other peoples lives," she starts, and Will feels his stomach swoop. This can only mean bad things – very, very bad things. The last time Sloan was involved in his personal life he had a gun pointed at his chest.

"Really?" he asks, and the arch of his eyebrow reminds her of that incident.

She shuffles and crosses her arms, mouth furrowed, and Will starts unpacking his briefcase because the only way to deal with Sloan is to let her speak and then say as little as possible.

"I said I don't interfere  _much_ ," she stresses – and really, she tries not to. She never knows what she's doing or seeing, and the last time she tried she ended up pushing the only man who's ever really given her butterflies into the arms of his girlfriend, but she's pretty sure there's no room to be wrong when Will had his arms wrapped around Mackenzie. There's only so many ways to interpret that altercation, and as Mackenzie's friend it's her duty to enquire.

So she tries a different tactic. "How did you spend your Christmas?" she asks him, trying for nonchalant.

Will's disbelieving gaze levels on her and she stiffens – her tactics would perhaps have worked better if it wasn't December 30th and Will hadn't been dragged into the group discussion of the holidays three days earlier.

"I ate turkey. Drank wine. Watched  _It's a Wonderful Life_  three times. You?" he throws back.

"My father got drunk and tried to convince me to marry the nice boy they just hired at his work."

Will pauses; tips his head to the side in a small nod of sympathy and then collapses into his desk chair, slinging his feet up and onto the smooth wooden surface. He crosses them at his ankles and plays idly with the corner of one of the folders sitting on his desk.

"Was there a reason you crashed into my office at," and at this he pretends to check his watch, "8:30 am on a Friday morning?"

Sloan shuffles and frowns neatly at him. Now that she's here she doesn't quite know how to phrase anything. For instance she could say,  _I saw you holding Mackenzie on Christmas Eve,_  or _Last night you disappeared into an elevator with her and practically inhaled her hair,_ or  _you've been a lovestruck teenager the past week and Mackenzie is no better, what the fuck did you get up to over Christmas?_

But instead she settles on, "Mackenzie seems happy recently."

Will, if he was at all startled, doesn't show it but instead grumbles slightly and tips his feet off the edge of his desk, sitting properly. "Mackenzie has always been too happy at Christmas," he mumbles, but after a second he seems to pause and Sloan thinks she might have stumbled across something.

She waits him out as Will's steady gaze creeps up towards her, meeting her with a stern glare and his own crossed arms, as if he's finally realized what she's hinting at.

"Sloan?" he demands, and she shuffles impatiently.

"I saw you last night."

Will crinkles his brow in confusion.

"A few million American's saw me last night Sloan. I was on national television."

"No, I saw you and Mackenzie last night. Leaving the building."

"And?" he asks carefully.

"And you looked comfortable, and happy, and you had your arms wrapped around her Will, what the hell do you think I'm talking about?"

She huffs and purses her lips, staring down at him, as Will ponders her words.

"Yes," he finally mutters. "And?"

"And I want to know what's going on."

Now he laughs, and Sloan fights the urge to stamp her foot like a five year old.

"That's really none of your business," he tells her, and then busies himself with his paperwork.

After a minute he looks up, because Sloan is still standing there, waiting, and he sighs impatiently. "Sloan," he grumbles.

"It is my business because she's my friend. Possibly the best friend I have and I know what she did to you was terrible. I know what it's like to be cheated on," she says, and hopes the hitch in her voice isn't noticeable (Thomas,  _bastard_ ), "But I also know that you've treated her terribly this past year and she still loves you despite it. She  _loves_  you, Will. And if this is you stringing her along, then I'm not going to sit back and let you," she takes a startled breath and feels the rush of impudence burn through her, hot and alive and wonderful.

"And I think you love her too," she breathes, quieter but so self-assured. Will marvels at this woman sometimes – she has such eloquent strength hidden beneath layers of facts and brash comments and dark eyes.

"I do," he tells her, because sometimes honesty demands honesty. "And I'm not playing with her. Not anymore."

Sloan seems to deflate, exhaling loudly. "Good," she tells him, and then nods once, now awkward.

She makes to move towards the door with a little shuffle, not quite meeting his eye, and Will feels the words jump up his throat, like he can't control them, like for the first time he desperately wants to tell someone what's going on in the hope they'll just understand and explain it to him in a way that makes sense.

"She's pregnant," he stumbles, and then immediately regrets it because really, Mackenzie should be making that decision, especially when it comes to Sloan.

He has, however, managed to stop the Economist in her tracks; mouth open, eyes wide and lips working towards words. Slowly, slowly getting there as she turns back towards him, and then, "What?" she breathes, eyes darting to the far wall where Mackenzie's office sits next to his own.

"I probably shouldn't have told you that. I'm sure she wants to herself. But so you understand?" he offers, shrugging lightly.

"And you're...?"

"Yes," he says quickly.

"Shit," Sloan breathes, and Will thinks that sums it up fairly well.

"That explains a lot," she murmurs, and then turns slowly, headed out the door. "I won't...I won't mention it to anyone," she tells him, and Will nods in thanks.

"Wow," she mutters, and is gone.

Will leans back in his chair and chuckles to himself, oddly relieved but terrified at the same time because people  _know_ now. People that aren't family or his close friends.

_Shit._

* * *

 

Charlie corners him with a smirk and an unfathomable hand movement – Will thinks it probably indicates he should follow the older man, but he's never been too bothered deciphering Charlie's signals so instead he pauses in the main office, crossing his arms with a huff, before grumbling and following the older man as he disappears around the corner and down the hallway.

Will had been on his way to the café down the road to find a sandwich, but apparently that will have to wait because Charlie just keeps walking down the hallway. Will jogs a little to catch up to him, ignoring his rumbling stomach and instead clearing his throat to announce his presence.

"You signaled?" he questions drily, because sometimes he thinks Charlie forgets this isn't 1973.

"Follow me."

"Any particular reason?"

Charlie has a sparkle in his eyes and a swing in his step and a few other metaphors that Will is loath to think about, because a pleased Charlie never results in good things, Will has learnt.

"Charlie?"

"Step lively!"

Will rolls his eyes but follow him into the elevator and it isn't until they're safely enclosed that Charlie turns towards him, "How's Mackenzie?"

Will sighs.

"Fine. She's fine."

He thinks perhaps people need to stop asking him that question and instead ask the woman herself.

Charlie hums to himself and nods, seemingly satisfied.

"And yourself?"

Will flounders for a moment, caught between a flippant remark and an actual conversation. He's never been one to express himself verbally, least not to work colleagues, but Charlie has always been the exception. He's painfully aware that he looks up to Charlie as a father figure – and wouldn't Doctor Habib have a field day explaining that occurrence? But Charlie has always been someone to confide in, and Will values it, mostly because the other man has never been afraid to call him out on things.

"Will?"

"Things are better, I think. We keep getting closer to...everything,"  _the baby, a child, the rest of his_  life,  _dammit_ , "But we're also working through things."

The elevator slows and then stops, depositing them, Will realizes too late, at the roof, not Charlie's office.

"Shall we?"

"It's fucking freezing Charlie and I don't have my coat."

The former marine puffs out his chest mockingly and steps outside "Come on Will, you've got to be tougher than that. In a few months you'll be chasing after a child."

He wants to roll his eyes and possibly weep and maybe also punch Charlie in the jaw for that comment. "Thanks," he mutters, instead. But he follows.

His fingers feel like they're going to freeze off in seconds and the cold seeps straight through his bones, to his heart and his lungs and he breathes it in, coughing quickly.

"Are you really working things out?" Charlie questions softly, and Will goes to argue before shutting his mouth.

Are they?

He thinks of waking in the morning to the soft press of Mackenzie along his body, to the trail of her fingers down his spine and the fresh smell of toasted bagels in his kitchen. Thinks of quick smiles in the office and the tingly feeling in his stomach when ever he looks at hers and jerking off in the shower because of her fucking legs wrapped around him at night and then having to be quiet and breathe slowly least he wake her in the evenings – she always falls asleep quicker than he does, and he's always terrified he's going to wake her up.

He thinks of all the little things they've shared since she arrived home at Christmas and how they're somehow mending his heart – she's wormed her way in after three years of hatred and a couple of startling familiarity and in the space of five days she's reminded him that she's the only person he ever wants to spend his life with.

Raise a child with. Marry.

And then he thinks fuck.  _Fuck fuck fuck_ , because they've really worked through nothing at all.

"I don't know," he whispers, watching the blur of snow swirl before him, barely able to make out the buildings all around; the lump in his throat rising quickly.

They've been pretending for weeks and whilst it's helping to fix them it's not  _going_  to fix them. He knows that now. Because there's a box in his office that he once used to hurt her, and he's really never spoken to her about how much she hurt him, and he doesn't know why she's suddenly invaded his bed every night, only that he wants it.

"I don't know what we're doing," he mumbles wearily, and without thinking grips the metal pole running along the roofs edge.

He jumps back with a gasp – the metal is painfully cold, searing his skin and causing rapid shivers to run down his spine, tingling through his body and the thick curl of cold air is intoxicating down his throat.

"We need to talk," he says, and Charlie hums beside him, startling Will as he'd almost forgotten the other man was there.

"This is it Will," Charlie tells him, "Don't mess around with it. With her. You both deserve better than that," and that's the second time today someone's called him out on messing with her feelings. He sighs and his breath mists heavy in the air before him.

"I know."

* * *

 

"Hi," she murmurs, voice clear and high and strangely innocent; Will startles from where he's attempting to tie his tie and glances up as Mackenzie leans against his door.

"You ready?" she asks, nodding at him.

He shrugs. Sure, he's ready for the show tonight. Anything else? Not so much.

But she's beautiful and careful and watching him with sparkling eyes. "I seem to be having problems with this tie," he breathes; soft least he breaks their moment.

Mackenzie pushes off the doorway and steps towards him, smirk playing at the corner of her lips, "First the pants, now the tie, one day you're going to forget entirely how to dress yourself, aren't you Mr. McAvoy?"

A slow thrill runs down his spine and he thinks  _fuck, is she flirting?_

They've danced and pushed and prodded and caressed over the past two years, but it's been a long, long time since she's flirted.

"You'd have to help me," he murmurs, and she lifts her hands to straighten his collar.

She tugs quickly at the ties loose ends and then drapes it once, twice around, knotting it quickly, like she always used to.

It's late in the evening, almost past 7, and the lights in his office are low, hazy. Mackenzie is close and he can smell the vanilla in her hair – his pillows smell the same way and it would be so easy to lean into her, to kiss her and hold her and love her and ignore everything.

"You could just wear nothing at all," she whispers, eyes focused intently on the knot at his throat.

"Kenzie," he grumbles, low and throaty and she laughs a little before stepping backwards, cheeks stained gently with red.

"How many parties are you invited to this year?" she asks, still within his reach but leant back a little, so at least he can watch her as she tilts her head to the side. It takes him a moment to comprehend her question, a series of  _What? Parties? Oh, New Years Eve_ , running through his mind.

He shrugs because he honestly can't remember and wants to go to them even less.

"I think I might just come here," he tells her, and the happy little sigh she gives makes his toes curl.

"Good."

She tucks his collar around his tie properly, smoothing the dress shirt down his shoulders, and in a move eerily similar to his own yesterday, runs her hands down his arms to his wrists. Mackenzie wraps her slim fingers around them and pulls them up between them, cradling them close, inspecting his hands, the curve of his thumb, so intently, and Will wants to shake her because  _really, is this necessary?_   _Short-circuiting his brain before he goes on National TV?_

She leans up on tip toes and Will goes still, her hot breath ghosting along his check and then her lips, cherry red and glossy, nip at his ear and really, this would be crossing a line, only he's been nipping and kissing and sucking at random points along her skin all week, eliciting soft whimpers and dark groans.

He guesses this is only payback.

And as usual he's correct, but also so very wrong, for she whispers, "If you tell anyone else without consulting me first I will make you very, very sorry," dark and sinful and Will feels his heart constrict and burst.

She's gone in a second, the soft swing of her hips, and Will doesn't often feel like a teenager but there are a lot of feelings that Mackenzie McHale elicits and at the moment they're all coursing through him.

 _Fucking Sloan_   _and his runway mouth_ , he thinks, and shakily steps towards the doorway.

He's still a hot, flustered mess when the first lines of his script appear on the teleprompter half an hour later.

* * *

Later that night and Sloan is holding Mackenzie's arm tight, whispering quietly to her in the doorway of her office and Will can't help but stop and watch them.

He's sure they know he's there but if they're going to speak in view of the main office then really, they have no one else to blame for his brief foray into voyeurism.

Mackenzie is wearing a pair of dark pants that slide down her slim legs, and a beautiful, soft cream shirt that Will had wanted to pet in the early morning light as she'd buzzed around his kitchen. She'd hesitated at the mirror in his bedroom, standing after putting on her shoes, and Will had seen the momentary pause in her countenance – a brief second of panic before her hand had smoothed down her stomach and then she'd turned to him, hot in the cheeks and mumbling.

"Can – can you see it?" she'd asked, waving at her stomach. "Can you see the bump?"

And Will had stood in the doorjamb, leant against it and still in his pajama pants with a mug of coffee and a piece of toast in hand, shaking his head.

But now he watches her, the easy curve of her hip and her steady stance and thinks yes, he can a little. Just a tiny little change in her body that is their child announcing it's presence to the world.

He feels his heart stutter and the phantom burn of cold against his fingertips from the rooftop and Sloan's words, "Don't mess with her," imprinted in his brain.

He's not messing with her, he promises himself.  _He's not, he's not, he's not._

* * *

 

That night she steps delicately into his office and smiles warmly, hugging her arms around her body, and asking "Are you ready to go home?" without really thinking.

The words sing happy in his chest and he thinks,  _Yes, home would be nice_.

But he pauses, for a moment he almost thinks to say no, or ask about her house, and then he thinks of waking in the morning. Thinks of the New Year about to arrive, thinks of their child – _shit, this will be the year his child is be born, 2012_  – and finds himself nodding before he can stop.

Thinks, I'll always want you in my bed in the mornings.

_I love you, I love you, I'm so, so sorry._

"Yeah, home," he smiles instead, and leaning down locks the small top draw of his desk.

He steps around it and she sways towards him, almost on instinct. Their bodies have grown accustomed to sharing space these past few days. He tugs his coat on and drapes a scarf around his neck – Mackenzie has forgone the mittens and her hands are stuffed in her own pockets tight.

"Come on," he whispers, and tucks an arm snug around her waist.

* * *

 

That night as she tucks herself into his body he flips her over quickly, and presses his ear to her chest, just above her heart as she giggles breathlessly, and with wandering hands lets his fingers dance down to her stomach. He lays his hands there and breaths quickly, feels the sudden jolt of her body under his fingertips, and then a hum as she presses her lips to his forehead. She threads her own fingers through the strands at the nape of his neck, scratching slightly, and they drift to slip with his head pillowed against her breast.

* * *

 

She's wearing a beautiful black dress that sways gently around her knees, the cut perfect to hide her growing bump and her eyes bright with the lights in the office; Jim keeps spinning her around and around on the makeshift dance floor and Will feels dizzy with her laughter, the cherry red of her lips and blush of her cheeks.

Maggie comes up beside him and bumps her shoulder against him, startling back almost instantly as if her own action surprises her, but Will just smiles softly, sipping from his champagne flute.

They'd told the rest of their small crew earlier in the evening, and whilst the prevailing feeling had been shock and awe, slowly they've all started creeping up to him with bright smiles.

Charlie keeps sending him knowing looks across the now crowded newsroom and Jim has stationed himself by Mackenzie like a puppy – sometimes Will forgets just how much the two of them have shared.

"Congratulations," Maggie smiles, genuinely happy, and Will's heart keeps hammering like it can't quite believe anything is real.

"Thanks," he nods, and heaves a breath in.

Mackenzie takes a rather dramatic twirl and ends up pressed into Jim's arms, giggling madly, and Will wants to walk towards her, wants to pull her up and away and into his own arms, but instead he stays stood beside Maggie in comfortable silence, sipping slowly.

"Are you excited?"

The young woman's brow crinkles as if she thinks it's an odd question, and perhaps it is, after all you needn't be a rocket scientist to figure out how complex and strange the situation is. Will's not sure excited is the right word to use.

"I mean," Maggie tries again, stumbling over her words, "Are you happy?" she finally settles on, and Will chuckles softly, eyes lingering on Mackenzie before slipping away.

"Yeah," he tells Maggie. "I am."

"And you and Mackenzie?" she asks, needling, like all the others have.

Will thinks perhaps he should carry a sign around that reads,  _We're Figuring It Out._

"We haven't killed each other yet, so that's progress," and Maggie giggles softly.

She seems to hesitate a moment, but then throws her arms over Will's shoulder and pulls him in for a hug and Will thinks,  _how on earth was I ever so stupid and blind to not know your name?_  He hates that there was a time when all these people didn't mean something to him.

"Thanks Maggie," he mumbles, and wraps and arm around her waist to squeeze.

Later, and Maggie's dancing with Don, and Sloan is talking to Charlie with wide, animated hand gestures, and Neal has already come up with sparkling eyes and a heavy handshake, saying "Congratulations Will, this is so awesome." Will can't find Mackenzie in the crowd and Nina Howard is slinking towards him like a cat stalking its prey.

He startles backwards and takes a sharp left but then runs into Jim who stops to chat with wide, slightly startled eyes – like he can't quite wrap his mind around the idea of  _an actual, real baby, like seriously Will, a baby?_  – Nina finds him and a chill runs down Will's spine at the thought of bubbly champagne up his nose.

At least Mackenzie isn't here with anyone else tonight. He guesses it's sort of implied that they're a duo now.

"Hello Nina," he says conversationally, reaching up to adjust the tie tight around his throat.

_(Mackenzie's fingers ghosting across his jaw line and the smell of her perfume intoxicating in his bedroom, her eyes bright and merry as they dressed and the swish of her skirt and god, that woman is going to be the death of him)_

"Will," Nina nods.

Out the corner of his eye Will can see Charlie moving towards him quickly, but Nina isn't up for pleasantries, apparently, instead she points Will towards his office and frowns delicately at him.

"I just gave Mackenzie a copy of something that really always belonged to her. I thought you should know," and then she slinks off into the crowd before Charlie can grab at Will's elbow.

"What was that?" the older man asks with a frown, his bow tie a startling, bright purple. "Will?"

"Huh?"

Charlie levels him with a glare and Will shakes his head, confused a second before,  _Oh, Damn._  He spins quickly on the spot and rushes throw the throngs of people towards his office, slipping through the door and shutting it soundly.

Mackenzie is at his desk, sitting back in his chair, eyes closed and lips parted softly in a smile. She barely stirs, and Will takes a moment to watch her, heart in his throat.

"Mackenzie?"

"Hmmm?"

He steps forward, takes another step, circles around his desk and crouches down beside her where she has his laptop open. He doesn't even question how she turned it on.

"Nina?"

"Hmmm. Delivered the rest of your message. All this time and I needn't have got you high, I could have asked her for it and we would have saved ourselves all this trouble," she gestures vaguely to her stomach and Will thinks of his hands on her skin last night. Thinks no, this is the way everything is supposed to be.

"Don't say that," he mumbles, and apparently it was the right answer.

She snuffles happily and Will tips her chin up so their eyes meet – this time last year she was standing on the opposite side of his desk with Wade, but this year, well –

"So you still love me," she says without preamble, and Will feels his heart constrict.

_I love you, I love you, I love you._

"I guess."

She snorts and then nods, understanding his reticence to say more, "Good," she mumbles, but doesn't press.

Out his office door Will can hear people stirring loudly – he glances at the corner of his laptop and it's 11:57 – three minutes until the new year.

Mackenzie stands and her skirt swishes softly, Will catches at her waist and she sways into him without question, tipping her head against his chest and sighing, and Will wraps both arms around her waist.

She presses her lips to his chest through the folds of his dress shirt and he presses his own to her hairline, nestling down until he reaches her skin. She breathes against him and then tips her forehead up, meeting his gaze, lips tantalizingly close; he can feel her exhale against his cheek slowly.

"How are we, Will?" she asks, and her voice is breathy, but it aches suddenly, and Will feels his heart clench, afraid.

There's something in her voice that isn't quite right and Will doesn't understand how moments ago everything was good and now its like she's slipping quickly from him.

"What do you mean?"

"Are we good?"

She sounds so earnest, so soft, and he wishes he could say yes, we're fine.

"Mackenzie," he sighs.

"Are we?" she presses, petulant.

He grumbles, people start counting down from sixty and suddenly he understands what she's asking him.

_Are you playing with me or is this real, is this for good?_

He can't tell her yes, not yet, not when there are still secrets and lies and betrayals hanging between them. To say yes now and then not discuss any of it would be like hanging a noose around any possibility of forever. Eventually it would all come out and he doesn't think they can survive another heartbreak.

But they can talk, and they can move forward. It's a New Year and all that comes with it,  _yada, yada, yada._

He tips her head up and presses a kiss to the center of her forehead, deep and still and he holds her against him as the clock strikes midnight. It's a gesture startlingly more intimate than if he'd kissed her on the lips, and he hopes she understands why he's saving that for later; for when they  _are_  good and whole and ready.

"We will be," he whispers.

And that's true.


	8. The Office

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter? What? You joke sir! But alas, it is true. 
> 
> I'm not quite sure how I feel about this chapter. It's bridging the gap towards what I know is happening and it felt strange to write and I don't know if I like it purely from an authorial POV, but if I didn't post it I think I was going to go insane, and you've all been wonderfully patient. 
> 
> I truly hope you guys enjoy it. At the end of the day, that's what matters most. I'm just pleased I'm through it :)

When Will was a small child he visited his uncle in Lincoln.

He was seven at the time, and his younger sisters and brother had remained at home with their mother. To this day Will isn't quite sure what prompted the visit to the capital, only that he'd stayed a week in his uncles small house on the outskirts of the city and had been allowed to go with him to work each afternoon, where his uncle was a District Attorney and had his own (admittedly small and cluttered) office overlooking one of the main city streets.

Will had been entranced the minute he stepped foot in there. From the high bookshelves along three walls to the shuttered blinds over the two small windows that were always partly opened and allowed the soft drift of motor oil and smoke and the hustling noise of people to wash over him.

There were books thicker than his first-grade forearm covered in rough red textures and inlaid with golden print writing; stacks and stacks of papers and files and folders that covered the dark wood desk and threatened to topple at any moment (but most especially when Will would run his fingers over them) and a small goldfish bowl sitting atop a high, metal filing cabinet that was filled with pebbles and a little aquarium sized castle, but contained no water or goldfish - rather odd keys and screws and coins and whatever else his uncle had haphazardly thrown in there.

He uncle was a good man - a kind man with a wide smile and no wife nor children, so Will had always been his favourite – the perks of being the firstborn.

His uncle spent the entire week walking the streets of the city with Will's hand clasped in his own, proudly introducing him to the handful of people he'd come across in the streets or the hallways of the office - _this is my nephew, William, he's a smart lad, don't you think? He's going to be a lawyer one day. Much better than his old uncle_ \- and Will had preened at the attention and been given a large bowl of ice cream by his uncles secretary because all the women in the office had positively fallen in love with him.

In truth he'd never once entertained the thought of being a lawyer (at age 7 he didn't have any idea what a lawyer was). He thought perhaps he might be a fireman, or a fighter pilot, or play football professionally and earn lots of money.

Being a lawyer seemed quite boring in comparison, especially with all that paperwork, but his uncle had been so insistent and proud that Will had nodded along anyway.

After all, the office overlooking the busy street was kind of cool, and people obviously respected his uncle, and he had a house large enough to have a nice backyard even though he was the only one living in it.

One afternoon he'd sat in the soft leather chair at his uncle’s desk and laid his hands upon the wooden top. He closed his eyes and imagined being a very old adult, perhaps 30 or even 40, and living in a nice house with a wife and children and a dog (because he had to have a dog. Most important was the dog) and a big yard for the dog (and the children) and his own office stacked high with books and papers. He'd smiled, and his uncle had peeked his head around the door, interrupting Will's future with an inquisitive arch of his eyebrow - _what are you thinking about, shorty?_ \- but Will had just shaken his head.

"Nothing," the young boy had replied, and then pushed himself off the chair to race around the office to the man.

In hindsight, the week in Lincoln with his Uncle had been one of the best of his small life. No father to fear, nor mother to worry about, or siblings to contest with. No school or punishments or homework or chores - only the peanut butter cookies that his uncle’s secretary insisted on sneaking to him at lunch time until he was full and flushed with happiness, and the promise of a future with an office, and a nice job.

But mainly the office. From that day onwards he'd always wanted his own.

* * *

Now, his office is his sanctuary.

He hides there, admittedly more often than he should, whenever Maggie is particularly overzealous, or Sloan too intent, or Jim and Don sharing sharp looks across the Newsroom. He hides there when Charlie is in an inspirational mood, throwing around strange phrases and sharp slaps to peoples shoulders, and when Neal is so entranced by whatever strange story he has stumbled across that he doesn't actually think about important things like reality, or the country, or the laws of physics, too.

He hides there from Mackenzie most, however. In the beginning it was a defense mechanism, because his heart was liable to combust whenever he was exposed to her for prolonged periods of time, and then it was a way to avoid the soft looks and the smiles, and then the crazy eyes and meltdowns that inevitably come with having Mackenzie McHale running your news program - and then it was a way to avoid the guilt.

He's a coward - a self admitted, aware coward who's settled into his role and doesn't like to move from it.

Mackenzie reminds him why he likes to fight for his people and his country - but he's woeful at fighting for himself. Instead he hides and he spits and he hisses and yells until people cower from him instead, and then he settles into his soft leather seat with a glass of whiskey and the blinds drawn and wallows in his guilt for a while

It'd been a tried and true method for the past three years, and then Mackenzie had returned and the whole world was thrown off its axis (he's still fairly certain that actual, geographic damage was done to the earth that day, because he's world sure as hell had shifted) and somehow everything he'd built came crumbling down.

Because Mackenzie doesn't take notice of his closed door, or his drawn blinds, or his low grunts and shouts. She barges in and folds her hands on her hips and glares at him until he feels the swell of emotion in his gut threaten to overpower.

And now the rest of the team have started ignoring the closed door too.

"Will?"

He grunts. It's 8 in the morning and he's been in the office for only five minutes.

He was hoping to catch up on some sleep - just resting his head against any available surface would suffice - until he was absolutely needed at around 9 o'clock for the first meeting of the day.

The door was closed, the blinds were shut, he'd avoided everyone as he stalked through the office, and once upon a time that would have been the universal signal blaring _please leave me along until I actively seek human contact_.

But now, "Will?" an insistent voice inquires. It's Sloan, and so help him unless the world is coming to an end Will might just bite her head off.

"I'm busy," he grumbles, and refuses to lift his head.

The economist doesn't leave, instead she fingers the corner of the folder she's holding and shuffles in her high heels. But she at least has the decency to hesitate.

"I'm standing right in front of you so unless you've discovered a way to absorb information through your forehead on your desk, I think what I have is more important."

"Wanna bet?" he mutters, but he lifts his head, meaning she's won another round.

"Are you okay?"

"Geez, Sloan, if you're going to wake me at least tell me what it was that made you come in here, don't make small talk."

And suddenly everything is two years ago and Sloan's eyes are widening, slightly shocked.

Will swallows heavily and wonders if he's pride will allow him to apologise. Probably not.

"You look like crap."

"Ta."

"Seriously Will. You were like one step away from reaching self-enlightenment over Christmas and now you look like Scrooge. What gives?"

His nose twitches and Will bites heavy on his tongue, instead running a hand through his hair, ensuring it will be messy all day, and groans pitifully.

"Nothing. It's the middle of winter and the roads are icy and it's cold and I’m tired and my staff won't tell me anything about the news, instead they insist on telling me how terrible I look."

Sloan purses her lips and rocks back on her heels, nodding slightly and then turns and walks from the office, "I'll come back when you've remembered how to be human again," she throws over her shoulder loudly, and Will can feel the startled glance of the entire office on him through the doorway. 

It's been months since he's argued with anyone besides Mackenzie, and by now it’s common knowledge that they argue as often as not.

"Close the door behind you," he mutters despairingly, and drops his head back to his forearms with a thud.

* * *

 

His office in Boston had been like his uncles.

It only had two bookcases but they were as high as the ceiling and contained some very thick and very daunting tomes that he occasionally liked to run his fingers across, just to feel their texture.

It was as if the books exuded knowledge, like being stuffed in and crammed between them would somehow make him a better lawyer, somehow make him understand and dig deeper and stay up that extra hour just to get an outline of a case figured out. There was a small window to one side that had no blinds, only a flimsy curtain left over from the previous occupants tenancy, and it overlooked the alleyway, not the street, like Will had once imagined.

But it was an office, and it was his, and the smoke and the motor oil and the hustle of busy people still spilled over and through the crevices all around him.

He brought most of his law books with him when he moved to New York. Some are stacked on the shelves in his apartment, whilst others still live in their boxes in the cupboard of his spare room. A select few - his favourites - sit along one shelf in his office at NewsNight, and he likes to glance up at them every once in a while to remind himself of his other life. His other lives, really. The life of a seven year old who'd just been introduced to the greater world and the life of a young prosecutor, trying to remember which red bound, golden titled book held the exact case details he would need to prove precedence for arguing a case.

He can remember the first time he told Mackenzie about his former occupation. They were in a jazz club that he's certain doesn't even exist anymore, and both slumped across the bar top stirring idly at martinis and listening to the slow croon of the man at the piano, meters away.

Mackenzie's hair was longer back then, not by much but enough that when she wore it in a ponytail during broadcast it flicked around behind her in the most distracting manner - Will was often glad that he couldn't see her during broadcast, only after (but then it was perhaps more distracting to have her smooth accent drifting through his ear, teasing and biting and gently reminding him to stop being an ass and to actually pay attention to what he was saying on live television.)

Their show that night had been shit, to say the least. Interviews had been muddled and the live feed to Elliot in the Wisconsin had dropt at the last minute and Will's teleprompter had repeated itself meaning _he_ had repeated himself, and he'd felt a terrible ache in his stomach all evening because once upon a time he could actually improvise like a professional.

"I used to be a lawyer," he’d told her despondently, halfway drunk and slouching towards her lithe frame.

She turned to him suddenly with the most intrigued, charming smile, and if Will hadn't already been in love with her than that moment would have doomed him forever.

"Were you now," she'd teased, flicking the little umbrella in her glass. She'd appraised him, dark eyes scanning down his body slowly - the charcoal grey suit she'd picked out still on, despite him usually changing at the office, because he was positive she'd picked it only because _she_ liked the way it looked - and now he was positive she liked it because her gaze was slow and hazy and the bar was smokey (like those old times movies, even though no one was smoking and it was all in his mind) and then she'd met his eye and drawled, "Yes. I can see that."

His stomach had clenched and her lips had quirked and Will felt all of seven years old again, ridiculously proud to be a lawyer but without any reason to know why.

"Were you a good lawyer Will? Did you stand up for people? Or were you in it for the money?"

And the tone of her voice, whisper soft and breathy, was only betrayed by the sharp look in her eyes that told him she wasn't just teasing.

Any other woman and he would have made some joke - would have made out that he was the Don Juan of Boston private sector - but this was Mackenzie McHale; bright, vivacious, intelligent, and utterly charming.

"I was okay," he’d mumbled instead, gaze faltering under her own.

"I'm sure you were more than okay, Will," she'd told him, and that night she’d kissed him against her door. Hot and insistent and pressed down his entire body, she'd grasped the lapels of his overcoat in both hands and was up on tippy-toes and Will couldn't help but think that for such a gorgeous woman, she was also fucking adorable, and then she'd smiled at him, and slipped away towards her apartment, and Will had been left breathing deep and wet in the cool night, little puffs of condensation rising from his red, bitten lips.

* * *

 

"William Duncan McAvoy, did you lose your hearing over the New Year?" Charlie all but shouts, and Will jolts in his seat and lifts his head from his arms, breathing deeply.

There's a sharp retort on his lips just begging to be spat, but then Charlie is furrowing his brow in concern and Will has no defence against that. Charlie's his greatest friend and Will hates to cause him worry.

"I keep hearing reports that my star news anchor is wallowing, possibly comatose, in his office and I thought I should investigate," Charlie tells him, his lips quirking in his own unique way as his voice dips and lilts in amusement.

Charlie speaks like no one Will's ever known. He pauses on strange words and jolts between sentences and his voice dances up and down scales, working him up into a dizzy when he's aggravated and amusing only himself when he's calm.

He's wearing a purple bowtie with dark, chocolate brown spots and Will blinks quickly because the rest of Charlie's suit is a light grey, making the bowtie _pop_.

"I'm fine, just tired. I didn't sleep well last night," he tells Charlie, and the older man merely arches an eyebrow.

"Will I've seen you operate on three hours sleep across a week and you still looked more presentable. It's been one day. Excuse me if I don't believe you."

There's a sharp pain in Will's stomach and suddenly he realises he hasn't eaten breakfast. He'll survive without it, but dinner last night had been a mug of coffee, then a few beers, and then a handful of cherry tomatoes left over from Mackenzie's one shopping expedition earlier in the week, and Will can feel the remnants of the beer and his own shitty night disagreeing with each other somewhere behind his temple.

It takes him a moment to realise he's buried his head in his hands - it's only when he goes to speak and it comes out mumbled against his palm, tired and grumpy, "I just want to be left alone."

"Should have called in sick."

"I'm not sick," he growls, and Charlie (who never really rolls his eyes, just sends them heaven bound as if praying for divine intervention) tuts and nods and then shuffles back towards the door.

"Well, whatever it is, you better be over it by 7."

Will doesn't deign that with a response. He does however wave a tired hand at Charlie, shooing him from his office, and then huffs when the door remains hanging open and Maggie's concerned face is directly in his eyesight.

He sighs. It's going to be a long morning.

* * *

The meeting goes quicker than expected and Mackenzie spends most of it ignoring him, avoiding his gaze and yet still too overexcited, even for her standards. Everyone knows something is up, and it's obvious that it probably has something to do with the baby. Jim keeps loosing his eyeline with Mackenzie’s face whenever he looks at her, as if his eyes can't help but wander down to her stomach, and Will would find the way Jim keeps jolting out of it and shaking his head amusing if he wasn't intent on being grumpy all day.

"Right, back to work," Mackenzie thrills, clapping her hands together much too loud and Kendra all but bolts from the conference room, everyone else spilling out just as quick.

Mackenzie stays a moment shuffling her papers and Will refuses to move his feet from where they're perched a top the desk.

It's a Mexican standoff that they've perfected over the years and Will is just waiting to see who will crack first. He's positive it won't be him.

Mackenzie pauses, takes a deep breath and meets his gaze, and just as he thinks she's about to launch into a discussion she smiles, and shakes her head, and then walks calmly towards the door, leaving him near breathless and tight with unresolved tension.

"The appointments at 2:30," she reminds him, "You're welcome to come."

And then she's gone.

* * *

 

Lucas McAvoy, or Uncle Luke as Will called him, was his father’s only brother. He was older than Will's father by four years and always came home for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Will liked to imagine that when he was older, he, Annie, Michael and Claire would still come together each year as well.

Uncle Luke had been Will's hero growing up. He was strong and tall and athletic and never angry. On Christmas morning he'd let the children climb all over him whilst unwrapping presents and then would spend hours piecing together model airplanes and racing karts and dolls houses whilst Wills mother cooked in the kitchen and his father sat at the dining table and smoked.

In the evening they'd sit around a small fire and drink hot chocolate and laugh at their milk moustaches, and Will can remember one year, when he was still quite little - Claire hadn't yet been born - nestling into his uncles side and whispering "You're my favourite adult," soft, so his father wouldn't hear.

"And you're my favourite nephew," Uncle Luke had replied, and Michael - who was barely a toddler - has chosen that exact moment to start crying, and Will had thought that was hilarious.

Now, he has a picture of the four McAvoy children sitting under the tree with Uncle Luke in a small frame in his spare room at home. No one ever goes in there, not even him; it's filled with boxes and old trophies and anything else he can't find room for but can't be bothered to part with, however he likes knowing the image exists somewhere; that those moments are preserved.

He's never told anyone about his Uncle Luke, not Mackenzie or Doctor Habib (Junior or Senior). When people once asked him why he became a lawyer - so strange for a young boy from Nowhere, Nebraska who'd only ever been interested in sport - he would simply say, "My uncle was one," but would never offer up any more information.

His father had hated it when he'd announced his intention, but his mother had worn a small, proud smile and that had been reason enough to know he was making the right decision. Annie and Claire are both teachers and Michael picked up an electricians apprenticeship straight out of school. But Will's the only one to ever leave Nowhere, Nebraska - he thinks that was probably Uncle Luke's doing all along.

* * *

 

Jim joins the queue of people intent on interrupting Will's day just before 11. He rushes in without knocking, then seems to remember Will's mood and rushes back out, tapping against the doorframe insistently until Will glares at him harshly.

"Yes?"

"We can get an official representative for the ambassador for an interview,” he says in one breath.

"But Mackenzie said -"

"Mackenzie was wrong," and it looks like it pains Jim to admit it. "Well, she wasn't wrong. She just didn't know what I knew, and so I called a guy who called a guy and long story short we can get an interview, tonight."

Will sighs, "Good."

But Jim keeps loitering. "What?" Will all but growls.

"Just you seem tense today."

"Observant."

Jim sighs. "Will, three days ago you stood here and told us all, with the biggest smile I've ever seen you wear, that you and Mackenzie were having a child together. Then you spent the night no more than a meter away from her - most of it with your arm around her - and then you went home together. And I know you spent the days over Christmas together."

"And?" Will cuts - one day, one blessed day, maybe he won't have everyone telling him how to run his life.

"You've been the happiest I've ever known you to be. And Mackenzie has been too. But today? It's like a warzone in here. What happened?"

Will sighs and rubs a hand against his brow. Unbidden, Uncle Luke springs to mind, and the quiet way he used to say, " _The truth Will. It's only ever about the truth. Nothing more, nothing less. Just the truth."_

 _Fuck off,_ he thinks, and then _, the truth didn't help you._

"Nothing happened Jim. I'm just tired. Mackenzie's tired. Everything is just -"

"Tiring. Fine. But I'm not going to sit around and watch you treat everyone, especially Mackenzie, like crap."

And on any other day Will might be proud of the kids audacity.

"Goodbye Jim."

* * *

Uncle Luke died when Will was eleven.

It was the dead of winter, but a nice, clear evening and he and Michael had spent the afternoon running around in the snow in a field near their school.

They were walking home, Michael chattering about the complex social lives of third graders, when their mother had hurried forward down the road from their house, hurrying the boys inside as the sun dropped.

Michael, who tended to believe the sun revolved around everything thus making life perpetually happy and cheerful, had skipped inside to tell Annie and Claire all about the giant, imaginary snow fort they had built, but Will had stood by his mothers side and refused to leave until she explained why she looked so upset.

She'd tried running her fingers through his hair, tried distracting him with muttering about dinner and the washing, but Will had followed her around the kitchen, ever insistent, until she had hurried him into her own bedroom (where the children were _never_ allowed) and had sat him on the bed.

"I'm so sorry Will," she'd murmured, pressing kisses across his forehead and smoothing back his hair, and Will had glared out the window at the dull afternoon and let her soft caresses wash over him, feeling blank.

"How?" he'd muttered, and his mother had grown still. She refused to tell him, and when Will's father had returned home he'd barked something about Uncle Luke deserving, _dirty, rotten scoundrel_ , like it was somehow his own fault, and Will had received a red cheek for the blow he’d landed to his fathers side in rage.

It wasn't until years later that he learned the truth - that Uncle Luke, who had never married, would never be able to, no matter who he loved and had instead devoted his life to helping others, had been jumped in the streets between work and home and left for dead on a cold, snowy evening.

There was no rhyme or reason, only reality, and Will’s sick, rolling realization of the world.

* * *

 

He knows that he's been terrible all morning. He knows that he has no real excuse.

He's well aware that sometimes he's a bear who can't help but get pulled into the darkness, and he's been trying so desperately to ignore this, but Mackenzie has the worst timing known to mankind sometimes, and Will couldn't help the way his heart had shattered, and then clawed out of his chest, when he'd woken the day previous to a kiss to his forehead and the announcement that she intended to go home.

* * *

 

_The Day Before_

Her hair is drifting gently against his cheek, and it smells like vanilla and possibly raspberries and he’s been meaning to ask her exactly what that is, but then he notices the thick black material of her coat and feels his stomach jolt suddenly because wow, usually when she wakes him she’s all curves and tingly-warm skin and sharp eyes, not dressed as if she’s about to brave the frozen wilderness.

“I should be getting home,” are her exact words, but her face is close and hazy and Will hardly hears her over the need to steady a hand against her waist and squeeze.

 _Don’t go,_ he wants to tell her desperately, _please, please, please just don’t go._

His mouth feels slack and fuzzy however, and she has a small smile on her lips that swims pleasantly before his tired eyes. She smells clean and soft; like the mornings he’s grown accustomed to, and it takes him a moment to realise the wisps at the end of her hair are still damp, meaning she’s already showered and dressed for the day and _just how long has she been awake and wandering around his apartment?_

_How long has she been plotting her move home?_

She’s watching him now. He can feel her breath heavy on his cheek and her eyes are dewy and somewhat distant, hardly focused on his face but rather trying to drink him all in, a heavy goodbye conveyed without words as her lips quiver softly; cherry red and quirked and he thinks perhaps he should kiss her.

Maybe then she’ll let go of his absurd notion of leaving. 

“I’ll see you at work?” she murmurs instead, and he decides against the kissing.

He wonders if this sudden retreat back across town has to do with the message.

It was probably the message. _Fuck_. Fucking Nina and her inability to stay out of peoples business.

But hadn’t Mackenzie seemed pleased the night before? Hadn’t she been wanting some sign of reassurance from him – after all she was the one who had demanded to hear what he said all those months ago. Surely she must have figured it out beforehand. He hadn’t exactly been subtle.

He’s drawn from his slight panic by her voice, soft and slightly hesitant, and that’s worrying, because she’s only grown bolder since she returned back from England and he hates the thought she might not understand that he just really fucking _does not want her to leave_. Not today, at least.

He tugs at the thick fabric of her coat, “Mackenzie,” he grumbles back, sighing quickly, and it should probably be worrisome that his first thought is to kiss her.

Instead his hand inches further around her waist and he pushes himself upwards, leaning against the headboard and tugging until she’s forced to settle on the edge of the mattress by his side.

What times is it, he wonders restlessly. His stomach is tight and there’s a slight tremor running beneath his skin that really should be worrying, because he can’t understand why the sudden thought of her departure from his apartment is sending him into a tailspin at, he glances over at the nightstand, _fuck_ , at 7:18 in the morning.

“Mackenzie, don’t go,” he grumbles, voice rough and only slightly a whine; Mackenzie’s lips quirk up, almost amusedly, and he digs his fingers into her side so she can feel them under the fabric. 

“If I don’t go now, I never will, and whilst it’s been lovely spending the holidays with you we really need to get back to our lives.”

It says something about their relationship, he thinks, that suddenly she’s the rational one in this conversation.

"Just, please," he begs, desperate and so unbecoming but he really doesn't care, "just..." and then he pauses, because words don't come easily, especially when he can't sort them out and it's 7 in the morning, and Mackenzie's top lip is being worried by her teeth.

"Will?" she asks, now concerned, and he lets his hand drop, runs it down her back but then settles it on his lap.

"Nothing, it's nothing. Just, I've gotten used to having you here," and she smiles softly in agreement.

"I know, but this is for the best," and he really fucking disagrees with her. But he's not going to say that.

"I still have my appointment tomorrow. Will you come with me?"

"Of course," of course he will. Always.

"Good," and then she runs a hand down his forearm, where his shirt has ridden up exposing his skin and the hairs stand on end as she presses a kiss to his forehead.

"I'll see you at work Will."

And then she's gone.

* * *

So yes, he knows that what Mackenzie did was sane and rational and that eventually the bubble would have to burst - Christmas and New Year were amazing and wonderful, but they were like a dream, a fantasy, and now they're adults again with jobs and a shitload of problems that haven't been resolved and a child on the way. And whilst she knows his secret now, that he loves her ( _he loves her loves her loves her, with everything_ ) she doesn't know all his secrets. Doesn't know how malicious he can be, or how he can play people, how good a lawyer and journalist he really is, because there's a reason they have a reputation for being slightly less than trustful.

Uncle Luke word’s, who died on this day because he didn't fit the world people impressed upon him, have plagued him all day - kept him up all night, seeped under his skin, and without Mackenzie there to anchor him (because fuck knows he doesn't know how to sleep without her heavy weight resting on him now) he's had the worst night he can remember in a long time.

And now he's taking it out on everyone.

He lays his head on his desk and peers to the side out the window, remembers the smell of Lincoln in that terrible, tiny office and Boston; trying so desperately to be the best person he could, to defend and always fight for the truth.

He's grown used to this anniversary over many years to the point where it doesn't even hurt anymore, but he guesses it makes sense. Uncle Luke was more a father to him than his own was - was a man Will wishes he could be - wishes were here with him now when everything is fuzzy and hazy.

He's jolted from his thoughts by a sharp knock on the door and then Maggie is slipping into his office, hands behind her back with the guiltiest frown of her face Will has ever seen.

His brow crinkles and he really doesn't want to think about what she's done.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, you loo -"

"Look terrible?"

She blushes faintly but her smile is true. Will can't help but quirk his lips. He's getting tired of being angry, and it's only midday.

"You do. And I know it's probably a terrible time to give you this, but then I think it might also be the best time," and now he's intrigued.

"There's a little kids clothes shop on my way to work that I walk past every day and I've never had a reason to go in there, but the other morning I thought I would, and I don't even know why it was open, it was like two days after New years and freezing cold" - and she draws a deep, startled breathe - "But I think maybe that was a sign that I was meant to go in there, so I did, and I found this," and now she throws her hidden arm out at him, clutching a tiny, downy soft baby's blanket.

"It was just so cute, and it's gender neutral, and I was going to give it to Mackenzie, sort of as a congratulations present...but I think, maybe, you'd like to hold onto it?"

The blanket is a soft, pale yellow, with a darker trimmed edge and tiny embroidered animals around the outside in deep reds and oranges and blues and purples. There's a lion and a giraffe and a whale and a butterfly, and Will can't help the lump in his throat, because the blanket is tiny - so, so tiny, and made for a newborn.

He can feel the panic from the last two days grow and then subside, like the tide, in and out, like he can't make up his mind whether to run or to hold it.

So he reaches out, because he promised he wouldn't run, and the blanket is feathery soft to touch and so delicate in his large hand.

"Thank you," he grunts, voice rough, and Maggie seems to hesitate, so he looks up and smiles and she beams at him. He's pretty sure there are tears in his eyes.

"Thank you," he smiles again, genuinely. He tucks the small blanket against his arm and looks out the open door, where Mackenzie is talking to Jim, but glances his way every so often.

"She's not angry at you. I think she understands that you're both going to panic and have bad days. But you should probably talk to her," and Will nods; feels the fight drain from him.

He glances at his watch and it's past one now, meaning Mackenzie's appointment is soon.

"Hold the fort?" he asks. He hesitates a moment, unsure what to do with the blanket - he could take it with him, but he kind of wants that to be a surprise (selfishly wants it to just be his a little longer, something only he and the baby share). So instead he takes the key from his desk and opens the draw on the right and places it delicately a top a small stack of files  - tries to ignore the small box, but can't, never can, and feels a tight swoop in his stomach.

_The truth Will. It's only ever about the truth. Nothing more, nothing less. Just the truth_

"Shut up Uncle Luke," he mumbles, and now Maggie really is confused.

He locks the draw and rounds the corner, ushering the young journalist from his office and then marches over to Mackenzie with purpose.

"Yes?" she asks, and her lips are quirked, amused.

"I believe we have somewhere to be?"

She startles a moment, and then glances to a clock on the wall and smiles softly.

"Yeah, we do."

* * *

 

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, leaning his head against the back of the car seat as Lonny drives them back to work. Mackenzie is in the seat next to him and much to his amusement hasn't taken her hand from her stomach once, like she can't quite believe there's a child there, even after an ultrasound.

Will feels light and swoopy and a little bit drunk, which is strange, but that might be the emotion and the lack of food and sleep and also the steady _thump thump thump_ of his child’s heartbeat that refuses to stop rattling around his heart.

Mackenzie shuffles around so she's facing him and her smile is small and reverent. "What happened?"

"I panicked when you said you were leaving."

"I wasn't leaving Will. I wasn't disappearing. I was going home."

"I know," he sighs, and runs a hand across his forehead. "I know. But it still felt like you were leaving."

She reaches across the expanse of leather between them a gently clasps his hand, bringing it back with her to lie on her stomach.

If Will closes his eyes he can still hear the steady heartbeat, feel the vibrations of their child growing and building and developing beneath his hand. Can still picture the strange, hazy image that had meant very little to him in terms of detail but had brought tears to Mackenzie's eyes, (and perhaps his own) and that's now imprinted on the back of his eyes. 

"I won't be a mess tomorrow."

"You better not be a mess tonight," she tells him, and her gaze is sharp; forever his executive producer.

Will snorts, and goes to pull his hand back, but Mackenzie holds it there with a strange smile.

"Indulge me?" she asks, shrugging a shoulder, and Will nods - _always always always._

And with a deep breathe, "We're having a boy."

She giggles delightedly, "Yes Will. Are you going to survive that?"

"Probably not," but he's determined to ignore anything other than the butterflies in his stomach.

"Mackenzie?"

She hums, eyes closed but hand tight and present across his.

"I know we agreed on Samuel. But perhaps, I mean, could -"

"Will?" and he feels his heart settle a little.

"Could his middle name be Lucas?"

He thinks of the way his father treated him. Thinks of the fights and the tears and the red cheeks and arms and backs, and the terror in Michael's eyes. Little boys look up to the fathers as heroes - but not all men are heroes.

"Will you tell me why?" she asks, and Will rubs his fingers against her stomach softly.

"Yeah."

"Good."

"Okay."

She giggles again. "Samuel Lucas McAvoy. Hello."

* * *

 

That night he lies in bed and holds the picture of he, his siblings, and his uncle above his head. He's resolute to sleep tonight, but there's a heavy weight on his chest - still things he needs to say; to Mackenzie, to the rest of the team, his family. But there's someone he can start with.

He picks up the phone and dials the number quickly; breath catching as the ring stops and a gruff, familiar voice fills the speaker.

"Michael? It's Will."

"Will?"

"Your brother."

There's a snort down the line, and then a jumble of voices - Michael's wife, perhaps - and then "How've you been? Not often I hear from you so soon after Christmas.

He hopes the smile he can hear in Michael's voice is true.

"I know. But I have news."

"Yeah?"

Will grins, "Yeah."

 

 

 

 


	9. They break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another day. Another chapter. This is actually the one that first sparked the idea for this story - the scene right at the end has been at the back of my mind for months. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy it. I apologise that I've been utterly slack at responding to messages and reviews these past few months - life's gone crazy with family and uni. But please now that they mean the world to me and make me smile and giggle and think. You guys give the most amazing feedback, and I love hearing your opinions and responses. You're all wonderful!
> 
> So, I hope you enjoy this one! This chapter means a lot to me. xxx

* * *

_It starts, as most bad things do, with Maggie._

_It’s not that she_ tries _to attract disasters of apocalyptic proportions – rather that she can never realise she’s started one until she’s somewhere in the middle of it. And then it’s usually too late to jump ship._

_Bad things gravitate towards Maggie Jordan. It’s a fact she wishes weren’t true._

 

* * *

 

But actually, it starts on a Sunday morning in mid-February when Mackenzie is 18 weeks pregnant, sitting at Will’s kitchen bench for brunch, almost a week before Maggie’s disaster implodes.

It’s light in the apartment despite the chill in the air and Will’s wearing an old college sweater over a pair of jeans, padding around the kitchen bare foot. There’s orange juice and bacon and he’s mid way through scrambling eggs and Mackenzie is picking at a plate of sliced fruit with delicate fingers, giggling every time Will catches sight of her and tries to swat her hand away with the spatula held loose in his grasp.

The atmosphere is calm and sleepy – Will had stumbled to the door half awake when she’d arrived unannounced. She’s been doing that often, turning up at his door in the early morning or evening. Sometimes for a chat, other times for work – more often than not for a shared meal or mug of tea and he loves that she’s actively seeking him out now. Loves that she wants to spend this precious time with him.

About three weeks ago she’d arrived at work in a slightly tighter shirt than normal and with a slightly more obvious bump and Will had let out a soft, “ _oh_ ,” at the sight of it.

He’d stood frozen in the middle of the office with a report dangling from his right hand and his gaze hadn’t left her stomach, now so obviously _there_ – and Maggie had squealed and Jim had been all half amazed/half embarrassed, as he was about all things regarding Mackenzie’s pregnancy – and it hadn’t been until later that afternoon when she’d cornered him in a quiet hallway that they’d both taken a moment to smile stupidly at the other.

Now, and she’s wearing a dark cotton dress that falls in soft waves to her knees and ends at her elbows, a seam sitting just under her breasts (and Will has been desperately trying not to think about _that_ change in her body) and allowing the material to drape over her stomach. It’s not big enough to infringe on her movements in anyway – in fact she claims to feel more physically stronger than ever. Morning sickness has past and her bodies acclimatized to being pregnant – besides the odd bought of breathlessness that she assures him is completely normal she’s feeling wonderful about the entire process.

“The baby’s started pushing up against my lungs,” she explains, balancing a wibbly thin piece of watermelon between her fingers. She bites delicately at the tip of it and her lips are red and wet and Will _was_ paying attention about five minutes ago when she started talking. Now, however, he’s leant against the bench in front of her and completely lost.

“Will?”

She has a cheeky smile, lips pursed and cheeks flushed happily and Will reaches out and pinches her shoulder. He knows that she knows what’s happening. They both know what’s been happily bubbling away between them for some months.

“Is everything ready?” she asks him instead, peering over his shoulder at the stovetop, and her question jolts him out of his thoughts – sends them scattering away from the idea of reaching out across the bench top and tugging her forward and instead redirects them to the pale eggs starting to bubble in their scrambled mess.

He plates the food and presents it to her with a soft, “ _tada_ ,” and she eyes him bemusedly as she walks towards the table. She’d left her shoes at the front door when she arrived and now tucks her feet beneath her as she curls into the dining chair – Will frowns as she shuffles uncomfortably for a second and when she meets his gaze again she blushes just slightly, “I won’t be able to do this for much longer,” she explains, biting her lip. “Soon this will start getting in the way,” and as she gestures idly to her stomach with her hand, Will feels his own stomach flip.

 

* * *

 

She presses a warm kiss to his cheek as they stand in the doorway and loops both arms around his neck for a hug – he’s a bit too tall but leans down and curls both arms around her middle and he can feel the bump of her stomach pressing into his own and the pressure of her fingertips against the back of his neck and the slow shiver that passes down his spine as her lips move against his collarbone. “This was nice,” she mumbles, and he makes a half grunting noise at the back of his throat in agreement, afraid to use his words.

She’s out the door in moments and he watches her small frame descend the set of stairs that leads to the elevator. Her hands are tucked in her coat pockets and she has a white scarf looped haphazardly around her neck. When she turns one last time at the elevator he’s still leant against the doorframe, half way out of the apartment, gazing at her with an impenetrable look of awe – but then she smiles warmly at him and he can’t help but return it. She’s all light and soft and fairylike in her excitement about life.

Will wanders back into the apartment and closes the door with muted thud, scratching at the back of his neck where the phantom press of her fingers still lies and is about to stumble into the kitchen for beer and whatever is leftover from bunch; thinks perhaps he’ll spend the afternoon on the couch watching a movie, when there’s the sudden patter of feet outside his door and a quick, tenacious knock.

“William McAvoy,” she’s halfway to yelling and he swings the door open so suddenly that it bounces against the wall. Mackenzie darts inside and when he tries to question what on earth she’s doing she simply holds up a hand in his face.

She shuffles from foot to foot a moment, eyes wide and startled and then she lets out a soft gasp and grasps his hand tight, murmuring “ _there_ ,” and pulling his hand to rest over her stomach. 

“That’s never happened before,” she tells him, voice whisper soft and awed. Will can feel the soft cotton of her dress and the smooth expanse of skin spread over her belly and the warmth radiating from her body and for a second is completely lost – and then _there_. A flutter – delicate and maddeningly quick; like little butterflies erupting beneath her skin.

Will sucks in a deep breath and sways closer towards her and when Mackenzie slumps against his chest with her head pressed under his chin, he curls his other arm around her side and holds her tight; presses his nose against her hair and breathes in deep.

 

* * *

 

And this is how it starts - a lazy Sunday morning with their child’s first movements under their hands.

 

* * *

 

Will arrives at work the next day and Maggie is standing, lost, in the middle of the office.

He slows as he passes her and then pauses when she turns to him expectantly.

She’s wearing slim dark pants and a white blouse and a frown that creases her forehead. Will can feel his heartbeat quicken because Maggie’s problems _never_ end in good things. For _anyone_. He could be a smart person and pass her by, or a good boss and stop and enquire. “What’s wrong Maggie,” he asks finally. Once upon a time he didn’t even remember her name, but now he was stupid enough to embroil himself in her problems. “Can I help?” he asks wearily.

She tilts her head to the side and her frown increases. “Maybe?” she hesitates.

He raises an eyebrow and she darts a glance around the room – Jim is sitting at his desk, however Will knows from experience that doesn’t mean he isn’t listening. The boy has keen ears and a thirst for knowledge, especially when it concerns Maggie, so Will gestures to his office and follows her inside.

She’s jumpy when he closes the door, wringing her hands together and refusing to sit down. Will shrugs off his coat and lays it over the back of his chair, sitting in it slowly – thinks, _perhaps if I delay turning towards her she’ll figure this out on her own..._

“If a guy has an engagement ring hidden in his sock drawer. Does that mean something?” she blurts, eyes going wide and teeth descending to bite are her lip even before she’s finished talking.

Will sits, frozen; heart beating double and palms growing sweaty and for a second all he can think about is that bloody, stupid ring and that bloody, stupid thing he did to hurt Mackenzie –and then, moments later, he realizes Maggie is obviously referring to Don and suddenly the task of breathing becomes a little easier.

“I’m not sure I’m the best person to discuss this with,” he explains slowly, and Maggie’s forehead crinkles judgmentally.

“You asked,” she accuses.

She’s all wound tight and edgy and her pacing is making him a little dizzy. He stands and walks around the edge of his desk, reaches a hand out to touch her forearm to slow her down and she takes a deep breath as she settles. “Sorry,” she mumbles, and Will waves a hand in understanding.

“I don’t know what it means Maggie. I’m assuming we’re talking about Don?” he clarifies, and she glares at him a little even if Will thinks it’s a fair question – he’s heard enough about the Don-Maggie-Jim-Sloan saga from Mackenzie and Neal to last him into the afterlife.

“Perhaps he is thinking of proposing,” he starts, and when her startled gasp picks up into hyperventilation, hastily adds, “However, maybe he just has it there. Maybe it’s a family heirloom?” he suggests, and Maggie makes a soft noise, as if she’s desperately clinging to that answer. “I don’t know, Maggie. If it really means that much to you, ask him. But I’m sure Don won’t do anything until he’s certain you’re both ready.”

And that’s a lie – neither of them was ready to move in together, but Will’s keeping that observation to himself.

Maggie, however, has settled a little and Will pretends to ignore how her gaze keeps flickering towards where Jim sits on the other side of the opaque glass walls. The young woman turns to him slowly, a hesitant smile on her face as she asks, “Were you ever going to propose to Mackenzie, before everything?”

And Will takes a startled breath – yes, of course he was, is the short answer.

“I thought about it,” he tells her finally, “I could never imagine my life with anyone else, after I met her.”

There’s a pause, and Maggie tilts her head slightly, watching him carefully. “But?” she prods gently.

“But I never got to do anything about it,” he answers finally.

“And now?”

He freezes, halfway back to his seat and ponders the question for a good while. Marriage, a house, a baby. It’s supposed to go together. “I think it’s a bit too complicated to say, now,” he answers finally, and whilst it’s a cop out, it’s all he can offer.

Maggie nods quickly and then with an embarrassed laugh, as if she’d just realized she’d spent the past ten minutes discussing her love life with her boss, gestures to the door. “I’ll see you later,” she murmurs, leaving the room, and Will nods after her, forcing a smile.

When she’s gone he reaches down to the drawer at his right and with shaking fingers opens it slowly – the ring is still there, the receipt gone. Maybe he should have returned it, he thinks, perhaps everything would be easier if it wasn’t burning a hole through his desk. 

There’s a soft knock at the door and Mackenzie’s head comes around the corner and he smiles at her forcefully, shutting the desk drawer quick. She sends him an odd look but then smiles and crooks her finger at him, beckoning him forward. “We have a meeting, Will,” she teases, and he follows her quickly – leaves the ring in the box forgotten for another day.

 

* * *

 

Wednesday evening and it’s bordering on midnight and Will is exhausted, honesty. He’s at a gala dinner for some media tycoon that works with finance and has never once stood before a camera other than to smile and take photos – Will’s suit is itchy down his left side and his shoes are new and rub at his ankles. He wants nothing more than to curl up in bed and sleep for 6 hours until work; but instead he’s stuck playing nice and laughing into his scotch and coke, desperately trying to find Charlie.

“Can I go now?” he pleads, catching the other man’s elbow tightly. Charlie is squinty eyed and beaming and that usually means he’s drunk – not that Will can tell a lot of the time. The older man seems to take a minute to ponder the question and Will can already feel his resolve lessening – he’s seconds away from growling out a response when Charlie shrugs and says, “Sure, just come meet someone first.”

 _Someone_ turns out to be a young woman named Allison – she’s short, with rusty red hair clipped back from her face, a dozen or so freckles sprinkled across her nose and deep blue eyes. Will finds himself staring a moment and then snaps himself out of it, blinking quickly. “Hello,” he smiles, genuinely, “Nice to meet you,” and then he turns towards Charlie.

“Wait a minute,” the other man frowns, rolling his eyes a little. “Allison here is a producer for local news in Philadelphia,” and with a teasing smile, “She’s a big fan.”

“Of course,” he grits, but then turning back to her, “I’ve always liked Philadelphia.”

She huffs a laugh, but doesn’t seem at all struck by his presence – nor does she fawn over him, instead she eyes him carefully and says, “I enjoyed your coverage of Voter ID Laws last August. It was a nice comeback. I’ve always been fond of important stories told through the eyes of everyday people.”

And so Will spends a further twenty minutes discussing the importance of balancing what he and Mackenzie consider _actual_ news with real, human stories – more often than not Allison manages to have him pausing and considering her arguments.

“She’s good, yes?” Charlie whispers, leant towards him. They’re on their way outside and Will is feeling tired, but buzzed. He shrugs and makes a non-committal noise but at Charlie’s insistence admits, “Yes. Yeah. She’s good. Why?”

Charlie shrugs, throwing his coat over his shoulders. “Things are changing Will, I’m just looking out for good people.”

And Will feels cold trickle down his spine all of a sudden – _surely Charlie’s not suggesting. No. He wouldn’t... Would he?_

* * *

 

Will arrives home just after one and trails quickly into his bedroom and almost shouts out loud because there’s a woman curled up underneath a mound of blankets, sleeping quietly.

It’s Mackenzie, and Will feels something hot and wonderful spread through him at the sight of her – peels his clothes off quickly until he’s down to his shorts and then climbs beneath the blankets, tugging her close into the curve of his body; and with his head tucked into her collarbone, falls asleep breathing light against her skin.

 

* * *

 

Friday morning and Will wakes to a steady headache and rain pattering against the windows. It’s still frosty outside and the weather forecast keeps threatening sleet and snow, but so far they’ve managed to avoid anything too dramatic. The streets are icy and the wind chills, but already the seasons are creeping towards the end of winter – spring is coming and can be felt in the brief pockets of green and the small slithers of sun.

He takes two painkillers with his coffee and skips breakfast in favour of a crisp apple – an unusual choice, but Mackenzie had insisted on plying him with a constant source of fruits and vegetables for her unexpected visits. Only the other night she’d arrived at his door with a soft frown and demanded he cook her chicken stir fry to make her feel better.

At work, everyone is brusque and edgy – it’s Friday and the weather is atrocious and everyone wants to be home for the weekend by nine. Will snaps at Neal when he lightly suggests covering a story out of Roswell, and Mackenzie is sleepy and keeps shuffling in her chair.

“What’s wrong?” Will demands across the long desk and the entire group pauses to watch them both; Mackenzie sighs and arches an eyebrow at him in annoyance.

“Nothing,” she replies, voice curt, “I’m just lightheaded and can’t breathe. Completely normal. Your child’s fault.”

And normally he’d love the sound of that, _his child_ ; today, however, he can’t muster the energy to care.

Maggie keeps eyeing Jim warily and when the meeting draws to a close she drags Mackenzie off before Will can reach her and apologise – he doesn’t like the thought of her being uncomfortable, even if he is aware that it’s largely all down hill from the second trimester on – but Maggie is quick with a hand around Mackenzie’s wrist and he watches the two disappear into her office with a sigh.

Don comes up behind him and with a crease in his forehead, ponders, “What the hell’s up with them?”

Will shrugs, and then remembering Maggie’s freak out earlier in the week, groans softly and leaves Don to contemplate Mackenzie’s office door in peace.

 

* * *

 

 _It_ happens later that night – looking back Will’s not even sure how it started. One minute they’re murmuring softly to each other after the show – Will undressing and tugging a sweater off his head and Mackenzie watches him carefully, a smile playing at her lips. She’s leant against his desk and Will walks towards her as she stands there – she tilts her head up and her eyes are bright and teasing – now would be the time to kiss her, he ponders, but then she ducks away and presses a hand to his chest and fishes in her coat pocket to pull something out.

It’s a small, blue box and Will feels his blood run cold because this was _not_ in his plans for the evening – his plans included inviting her back to his house and soft music and good food and then his warm, comfortable bed and the press of her body all around him.

“Mackenzie,” he starts, and before he can help it words are tumbling from him. His head is thumping and his blood is rushing wild past his ears and slowly, slowly, Mackenzie is shrinking back from him, confused.

“Will,” she shouts, holding a hand out to stop him, “Will, this belongs to Maggie. Well, Don, actually. I know it’s not yours,” and her voice is soft now as he pauses, amused even.

Will feels his heart stop a second and then pick up a moment later, a quick staccato that throbs at his temple. “ _What_?”

And Mackenzie laughs, “Maggie found this in Don’s drawer and had a minor-Maggie style freak out and took it. She’s been carrying it around all week and she finally told me about it this morning. I offered to take it until this evening in the hopes it would distract her less.”

Her voice is all bemused and lilty and her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are a dazzling, brilliant blue. Will feels stuck in the moment and tries to breathe normally as she laughs again; the noise tickling down his spine and pooling in his stomach.

And when he grumbles, “Fuck,” and rubs his hand at his forehead, she pauses comically and holds a hand out in confusion.

“What is wrong with you?” she asks, stepping towards him. She places a hand on his bicep and runs it down his arm to tangle around his wrist. She tugs until he’s even closer and then she’s stood before him, smiling teasingly and _oh so beautiful_ ; and he can’t _not_ tell her this now anymore than he could capture the moon.

“Mackenzie,” he mumbles, voice low, and she seems to sense the change in his countenance – glances up quickly and sees the shift in his eyes from terror to a resigned air. She tilts her head and her brow crinkles and he walks slowly towards the draw on the right side of his office and pulls it open. It’s sat unlocked since Wednesday and he reaches into it without breaking eye contact – pulls the small box into his grasp and she sighs softly. “Will?”

And he thinks fuck it, “I didn’t buy this when we were together.”

There’s a startled pause, and then, “What do you mean?”

“I lied to you, months ago. When you were doing opposition research on me I knew you’d find out about the offer and would think I was going to take it, so I bought the ring that afternoon to make you think that I was serious.”

And saying it now, he realizes just how utterly horrible a thing it was. Realises what Dr. Habib must have seen – how messed up a thing that was to do, to anticipate.

Mackenzie, still and beautiful and hands trembling softly, murmurs, “Why?”

And Will can only shrug. He’s not even sure why the fuck he did it, other than the obvious. “I wanted to hurt you, I think.”

The room is oppressively silent and Will wishes she would speak – Mackenzie is never short for words, especially when she’s flustered. Silencing her is next to impossible, but now she’s still and quiet and pale.

And then she murmurs, “We do that a lot, don’t we.”

“Mackenzie,” he sighs.

“You and I. We love each other, right?” and her voice is soft and trembles. He nods quickly – surely she must know that. “But we hurt each other too much. How are we so messed up Will? Did I start that or was it always there?”

And he can’t think what to say.

She pockets Don and Maggie’s ring carefully and then blinks slowly, and Will realizes that there are tears in her eyes. “We’ve been pretending that this will work without dealing with anything important. But I don’t think you’ve forgiven me yet, and I don’t trust myself enough not to hurt you. And we can’t have a child tangled in the middle of that, can we Billy?”

And it’s partly true, he knows. They do hurt each other. But he’s beginning to think that they can put that aside and build something new and exciting – wants it more than anything. “We _can_ Mackenzie.”

“No,” her voice soft but strong – eerily breathy, as if she’s a million miles away. “I can’t keep doing this Will. It’s exhausting. I don’t know where we stand and it scares me that I might never know. Losing you again would be the worst thing in the world, but I’d rather have you near me and keep you there, than risk it all on more and fail – not with a child, Will. That’s not fair on him.”

She watches him closely and all he can think of is those feather light flutters under his hands last weekend – the first, few touches of his son. Can they risk that on a child? With their history?

His temple is throbbing and there’s an answer lodged in his throat and it takes him too long to realise that Mackenzie is waiting on his answer – perhaps waiting on him to contradict her, to prove her wrong  - and he so desperately wants to but he can’t find the words and she’s raising a hand to her lips with a startled sob before he can do anything.

“I have to go,” she murmurs, gaze caught on his, and then she’s out the door quickly and suddenly and Will feels frozen, like a million tiny icicles are pressing in down his spine and burning cold.

 

* * *

 

He goes home that night and places the ring box in his sock drawer and downs two bottles of beer and then collapses into bed.

On Saturday morning the world is a little brighter and he tries ringing Mackenzie, but it goes straight to voice mail three times. He stamps a foot angrily against the side of his wall and then regrets it moments later when the pain shoots up his leg and through his hip – he’s too old to be throwing tantrums, and then collapses against the lounge with a laugh because _how the fuck did he think he could possibly deal with a child?_

He can feel his head and heart swinging between angry hot and a desperate cold and by the time it’s Sunday he’s a mess of jumbled misunderstandings.

On Sunday evening he sits on his bed with his head in his lap because somehow, somewhere in the past three days he realized that he didn’t give a fuck anymore about what Mackenzie had once done. Didn’t care about what had gone between them – the past was in the past and he could spend the rest of his life regretting his future – or he could fight for it.

On Monday morning he arrives at work at 6:48 am and sits patiently in his office, tumbling over his words and his promises, ready to prove to Mackenzie that she’s wrong.

 

* * *

 

And then it all gets blown to hell with a simple sentence.

Charlie, standing in the middle of the office with a frown crinkling his face and a direct gaze at Will, announces, “Mackenzie is on holidays for two weeks in London and Jim will be replacing her whilst she is away. I realise this is a little sudden, but you should all get used to it whilst you can. In a few more months this will be happening again. Capisci?”

The room is silent and a few gazes fall on Will. He, too, feels like the world has been flipped on its axis because he can understand her absconding to London once; but twice is a kick in the gut.

He walks back to his office and slams the door and when Charlie knocks at it determinedly, demanding to be let in, Will merely drops his head to his arms on his desk and closes his eyes, willing the world away.

 _Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck_ ; he thinks.

 

* * *

 

Sloan finds him hours later, hiding in his office with a glass of whiskey and a report on Libya. She slams her hand down on his desk and he doesn’t glance up at her – already knows why she’s here.

“Do something about this,” she demands, and Will shakes his head defiantly.

“William McAvoy. Fix this now.”

“She doesn’t want it to be fixed,” he mumbles; remembers the look on her face when she’d left his office last Friday – that terrible realization that he’d messed things up for good.

“Yes. She does. All she wants is you and to believe that maybe, somehow the two of you can actually figure this out. She wants _you_ to fight for this Will. She wants you to fight for her.”

And he knows that. Believes it. Wishes he could explain that that’s all he wants too; only Mackenzie is on her way to London and he doesn’t know when she’ll be back, nor if she’ll speak to him when she returns, and really, she has no reason to – he did a shitty thing to her and it’s not the first time. Why on earth should she keep coming back to him when all they do is hurt each other? He’s midway through opening his mouth to explain this all to Sloan when he glances up at her – and pauses.

She’s wearing a red shirt and has her hands on her hips and Will is suddenly over a year earlier – Mackenzie stood before him and pleading that all that mattered in the end was “ _I fell in love with you_ ,” like it explained the inner workings of the universe.

And suddenly he knows. “I have to go,” he stammers, rising quickly from his seat, and Sloan slaps him on the shoulder with a loud thud as he grabs his coat and runs from the room, yelling after him all the way.

 

* * *

 

It’s busy in the airport – people wandering back and forth; some running, most clumped in small groups and hugging tearfully in hello or goodbye, but Will doesn’t notice any of them, doesn’t notice the announcement over the intercom nor the bags he has to jump over nor the arm he knocks into with a jolt as he rounds a corner.

Mackenzie’s flight doesn’t leave for another hour but he needs to find her before she goes beyond security and he really doesn’t want to do this in front of people – really, best case scenario he’ll be able to pull her aside into a quiet room and explain to her all the feelings muddle up in his head

Worst case scenario, of course, is that she never speaks to him again.

But he’s feeling optimistic.

 

* * *

 

She’s standing by a large floor to ceiling window, shoulder pressed to the glass and gazing out at the runway below. There’s a thick sheen of ice across the tarmac that glistens from the multitude of lights directing the way and little people in bright yellow and orange vests are running around between the planes sitting at each of the terminals; every now and then a little car drives between them, tugging a trailer of baggage along behind it that then gets unloaded and hoisted up onto the planes.

She has a bag resting by her legs and a book in her hand with a finger nestled amongst the pages to mark her place. Her thick, black coat is buttoned up to her chin and she wonders how long she’ll be able to wear all her clothes; how long until maternity clothing becomes nonnegotiable and she can’t see the tips of her toes over her stomach. She’s warm in her sweater and coat and pale purple woolen scarf, and as the time trickles by before she can board the plane she rests a gentle hand over her stomach and presses the side of her head to the freezing window.

Her breath fogs up the glass and she’s so intent on watching it that she almost misses the distant, muffled sound of her name being called over the crowds.

Doesn’t believe it until it becomes louder, more determined and pronounced and then she’s turning around with a startled gasp because she knows that voice almost better than her own.

“Mackenzie!” and there’s Will, breathless and with his coat open and hands stuffed in the pockets – eyes bright and alert with just a shimmer of terror underneath. She takes a step towards him in shock but then pauses, swaying back.

He straightens and reaches an arm out towards her, catching the ends of his fingers against her elbow and it’s only then that she realizes how close they’re standing – he shuffles forward a little and she refuses to glance up from where her gaze is focused on his slightly scuffed boots – knows that if she does make eye contact she’ll be thrown right back into the emotional turmoil of the past few days and she _can’t do that now_. Can’t think about any of it. Not until she’s had time away; time to think and breathe and preferably cry into her brother’s shoulder a little.

There are people all around them and a few are watching; she doesn’t want to think about whether that’s because they’ve recognized Will or simply because he’s making a slight spectacle. He grips her elbow tight and she can feel the heat of him where his fingers dig in through her coat and finally, finally, she glances up at him – he looks lost and open and she hates seeing him like this; a little broken.

“Mackenzie,” he breathes, finally, and his voice is soft and runs through her veins like warm honey.

“What are you doing here?” she finally asks him, trying to sound indifferent and failing miserably. Instead her throat is tight and her stomach is jumpy and she hopes she can keep herself from crying. Surely she’s cried enough over this man in the past five years to last a lifetime.

“I had to see you,” he tells her, and she shuffles backwards without thinking.

It’s not that she doesn’t want to see him here; it’s perhaps the most romantic scenario she can imagine – no matter what he’s come to say it’s still the first time he’s chased after _her_ , and that in itself feels important.

She loves him and she trusts him – how could she not?

But she’s beginning to understand that sometimes the greatest love doesn’t mean everything – sometimes despite the curl of her toes and the pounding in her temple and the rush of blood to the head every time he’s in the same room as her, it doesn’t mean everything will work out. Sometimes people just don’t go together – sometimes they hurt each other too much to see past the pain.

“Will, what ever you have to say...” she begins, voice tired and soft, but he interrupts her with solid step forward and she can feel the backs of her ankles hit her bag where he has her corned against the window.

“I know what I did was wrong – I should have told you. I spent months trying to punish you for something when it wasn’t my place to make you feel bad.”

And she huffs gently, “It was a little your place,” she mumbles, and he smiles softly in understanding. For the first time in a long time he doesn’t even mention what she did, despite the opportunity – and a small part of her thinks yes, _that’s progress._

“And I’ve hurt you again, these past few months,” he pauses, takes a breath, “It’s been difficult,” and she nods, quirking a smile. She has her arms wrapped tight around her middle and they’re attracting a small, but silent crowd – people seem to sense that something is happening simply by the tension surrounding them (and the small part at the back of her brain that will always be his executive producer prays that no one is filming, or taking notes).

But he seems to sense this too; steps forward and she doesn’t step back and with one hand still heavy on her elbow leans down to speak quietly, privately. “I’ve been so scared about...everything. I never thought about children until I met you, and even then it was all...abstract. I don’t know how to be a father, but I think I can try. I want to try. With you.”

His voice is so earnest and his gaze intense and she can feel herself blushing and curling in on herself – chest tight and tears welling in her eyes and she wants to believe him so damn much.

But they hurt each other – they push and the pull and they leave scars and whilst that may be okay when it’s just the two of them...she’ can’t do that to a child.

“Will, I can’t –“ and her voice breaks – his eyes go wide and she can see his jaw clench. His voice, when he speaks, is desperate and raw and she’s spent five years trying to draw this type of emotion out of him – it figures that it would finally come on a snowy, wet evening in an airport when she’s finally realized the truth.

“We hurt each other –“ she tries to say, and he growls low in his throat – not threatening, rather a frustrated, desperate noise.

“But what if we didn’t.”

She huffs a laugh and curls her arms tighter around her body, “You can’t know that.”

“Yes I can,” and he’s so bloody obstinate sometimes – she wants to smack him and kiss him all at once; her chest too tight and the tears trickling down her cheeks.

“Do you remember when you first came here and you sent that email to everyone and then told me you loved me and said that if this were all a romantic comedy that would make _everything_ alright in the end?”

And she’s sniffling loudly now, eyes glassy and lashes wet and her nose goes red when she’s crying and Will always forgets that detail. She nods quickly, a smile hesitant on her lips, and her voice is feather soft as she whimpers, “Yes.”

He tries not to startle her by throwing his arms up but he desperately wants to shake these words into her head, so settles for laying them, gentle but tight, on her shoulders, and gazing at her determinedly (because really, this is possibly the most important speech of his life), says, “ _This_ is that moment!”

And she blinks, brow crinkling, desperate to believe him but unable to because...because of everything. It’s all too much – too many variables and too much hurt and she’s promised herself she won’t do that to this child – won’t screw it up anymore even if Will is finally warm and present and begging her.

“This! Here,” he presses, voice rising, “We’re in an airport Mackenzie and it’s snowing outside and your flight leaves soon; but this is _that_ moment where none of it matters,” voice tight and pleading and she’s still sniffling, trying to breathe through falling tears, “All that matters is I love you and I’m sorry and I don’t want you to go. I love you.”

And leaning forward, heedless of her tears and their crowd and the overhead announcement that her flight is boarding soon; heedless of everything other than the need to convince her not to give up; he kisses her. 

 

 

 

 

 


	10. London; Calling

* * *

* * *

_Two weeks later_

It's cold in the apartment.

Whilst London had been dreary and wet, coming home to New York is like a frosty slap in the face – the wind is harsh and the streets are frozen and Mackenzie's toes ache even through her thick socks and boots. She has a warm woolen scarf wrapped up around her nose and her cheeks are stained red and sting from the wind – she's shivering and has her fingers buried deep in her coat pockets but no matter what she does she can't get any warmer.

She's turned the heating on but it always takes a while to kick in; if she could she'd curl up underneath the blankets on the bed but her stomach is growling and she knows that if she risks going without food she's twice as likely to wake up lightheaded and nauseous.

There isn't any food in the fridge – not that she expected there would be. Only a full bottle of water and a carton of eggs that are dated a week earlier and a suspect box of takeout that she doesn't dare go near; she opens the eggs gingerly in the hopes of omelets but her stomach doesn't agree and her nose crinkles distastefully so she throws them in the bin and moves onto the cupboards with a sigh. They're not much better but at least the food lasts longer and there's a box of unopened crackers that she nibbles at whilst sitting on the couch, legs tucked beneath her with a throw blanket over her lap and a mug of tea steaming hot in her fingers, warming them gently as the television flickers on.

It's just past nine so Will is already off the air but she leaves it on and takes the rare opportunity to watch Terry give the Capital Report – she never gets to watch him in the rush to debrief after the show – but she knows him well and can't help but smile softly as his familiar, warm face greets the viewers.

She finishes her food and washes the dishes in the sink with boiling water – the heat rises and hits her face and she feels a little more alive as her fingers descend into the murky depths of the sink – they ache terribly at the first, hot contact, but after a second the warmth spreads and tickles up her arms and she shivers delightedly, soaking it all up. She spends an extra five minutes with her fingers submerged and only pulls them out when the water starts cooling.

The apartment is warming slightly with the heat on but she's still rattling and shivering. She stumbles towards the bedroom and strips off her boots and scarf and coat as quick as possible. She pauses a moment and then with a huff pulls her pants off; she has to wriggle a little because the baby has grown and her clothes only just fit and whilst she and Lucy had been shopping more times in the past two weeks than she cares to remember, she still hasn't accepted the fate of maternity clothing – not until she has to cut the clothes from her body.

She leaves her shirt on for warmth and then dives under the covers and curls in a ball – the minute her head hits the pillow she breathes in deep and the rich cologne and underlying scent of  _Will_  is familiar and satisfying and comforting – it settles in her lungs and her eyes flicker gently and before she knows it, she's fast asleep.

 

* * *

 

She dreams of London – it's raining and the streets are grey and murky and Amelia is walking slow as a snail down the street in her wellington boots and bright pink raincoat, holding a clear umbrella. She stops at each puddle and inches her feet forward until she's standing in it – each time she sends a triumphant grin Mackenzie's way and Mackenzie can't help but smile back at her. If Peter or James were here they'd be running or splashing and covered in rain and mud – but Amelia is soft and quiet and whilst she can make an awful lot of noise when she wants attention, she chooses to move slowly and with care.

Mackenzie  _likes_ London when it's rainy. Not that the soaked streets and soppy people are cheerful – but it's familiar in the same way that the constant drum of noise in New York is; or the flicker of lights in the Newsroom just before a broadcast is; little reminders of home that settle safely in her chest.

In her dream she's standing with Amelia one moment, then she's in her parents old house with its high arch ceilings and endless bookcases, sharing tea; and then in an instant she's on a plane with blinking lights and a voice over the intercom, asking passengers to put their seatbelts on; it rumbles and she can feel a strange weightlessness under her feet when she presses them to the floor below.

Perhaps it's a memory – a hazy mix of the past few weeks brought on by being home and still feeling so lost - the dream plane breaks through the cloud cover and is already flying quite low over the city – it shakes and rattles and the noise drowns out the chattering of the couple sitting next to her; excited and nervous and gripping the middle of the chair tight between their hands. Out the window the Thames is growing beneath them, winding like a serpent through the decaying buildings and the dull blue-grey tone cast upon the city through the rain is both a dreary welcome and a comfort.

They're seconds from touching down and she braces herself for the jolt forward but before plane can land she's back in her parents living room with tea and her heart feels like a dull weight in her chest, shuddering from the anticipation of landing and the numb feeling when they don't. When she breathes in deep her lungs fill slowly and thickly – the baby is quiet, lulled to sleep – but her hand rests just below her waistline and she likes to think that the soft pressure might be comforting – that perhaps he can feel it when she strokes the thin lining of skin, even through her dream. She feels safer cradling her hand over the bump, and as her phantom parents talk around her she whispers his name softly, so only she can hear.

 _Samuel Lucas McAvoy_ ; and the name grows more familiar and precious each day. She feels her lungs loosen slightly even as her heart flutters, and murmurs, "What am I going to do?" even when the baby is quiet in response.

"Beg pardon, darling?" her mother asks. She's wearing a pair of red rimmed glasses that Mackenzie hasn't seen since she was a small child and she can't help but smile oddly at her mother – she's asked such strange questions over the past two weeks. Obviously she'd understood something was upsetting her daughter but she'd been loath to question her beyond indirect prods and promptings – "How are you, darling?" or "What have you been doing?" or "How's the baby?"

And then there had been her father, clear as day – "How's Will?" and Mackenzie hadn't known how to answer.

At the thought of him she can feel her heart pick up and her fingers curl and suddenly she's back on the street with Amelia and James and Peter but the streets are New York – smoky and bustling and noisy with car horns and machinery; her head feels heavy with it all – and then there's a blond haired, cheeky smiled boy darting between his cousin's legs, barely tall enough to toddle.

Mackenzie lurches forward but in the second it takes to reach the small, laughing boy she's already  _falling, falling, falling_  with a thud back to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Mackenzie wakes with a startled gasp – fighting for breath and with baby blue eyes staring back at her. She blinks and they're gone but the delighted laughter of the little boy won't soon be forgotten; she shakes her head and tries to blink away the fuzziness behind her eyes and it takes her a moment to realise the trickle of water through the pipes in the bathroom – there's a low groan and metallic twist as they contract and she blinks owlishly in the too dark room, trying to make out the clock on the bedside table so she knows how long she's slept.

The light in the hallway is on and the apartment is finally warm and toasty – she sits up and the clock reads just past midnight; she's had a couple of hours sleep and already her head feels less stuffy, just tired. Her eyes are adjusting and her limbs are loose, not tight. The water is turned off and she sits up straighter as the soft patter of feet skitters down the hallway – through the light cast from the door she can make out his shadow as he enters the room and her heart flutters madly at the sight of him; real and warm and wet before her.

It had been terrible leaving him – her hands had trembled the entire flight, and the old man next to her had patted her arm and mistaken her for a nervous flier, telling her, "Nothing to be afraid of love, everything will be fine, you'll see."

The irony hadn't been lost on her, and she'd sent him a small smile in thanks and gladly gripped his hand when it was offered on descent – she'd closed her eyes and all she could see was Will before her; and his bright, pleading gaze.

 

* * *

 

_Two Weeks Earlier_

Will's lips are cold and slightly cracked and Mackenzie takes a sharp breath as he pushes forward but then loses it all in an instant until she's gasping and clutching the back of his neck tight. She's desperately trying to pull down air whilst at the same time keep him as close as possible – his hand slips around her waist and she can feel the heat through her coat; it spreads up her spine and she shivers delightedly and her head is growing fuzzy because it's late and his words are echoing and she needs to breathe; needs a second to take everything in -

"Wait," she gasps, and pushes him back gently – not far enough that his hold on her lessons but enough that she can rests her forehead to his chin and inhale sharply and shake her head;  _I love you and I'm sorry and I don't want you to go. I love you_ ; rattles around her periphery like a freight train and she can feel her pulse fluttering.

She has a hand pressed over his heart and the soft wool of his black overcoat is scratchy against her fingertips; she curls them into his chest and he pushes forward; his breath huffs against her forehead and a lock of hair falls swiftly down her cheek. He's there to push it away before she can and when she glances up Will's lips are bright red and his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are wide and glassy and terrified; they're both still breathing deeply and Mackenzie resists the urge to tuck herself under his chin – she knows his arms are strong and warm but she needs to think now; has to board a plane but at the same time; Will.

He's here and present and holding her and loving her.

"Why now," she whines and her voice is high and croaky as he chuckles.

It rattles down her frame and she shivers again; both from the cold and the emotion. Will presses his lips to her forehead and it's a gesture so familiar – one that's been repeated so often in the past few months – and suddenly, with the phantom of his lips still tingling against her own, it's not enough.

She makes a noise in the back of her throat – a soft whine that rumbles into a groan – but Will seems to understand and leans down to kiss her gently. His lips are still cold but Mackenzie has her eyes closed and all she can feel is the pressure of his fingertips around her waist and the anchoring of his elbows on her hips and for the first time in a long time she feels safe and guarded.

"My plane," she whispers, and now it's Will turn to whine – he grumbles against her lips and she smiles; nips at his bottom one and he retaliates with a groan and a tickling finger up her spine. "I have to go."

"No."

"Will," she exclaims, and he silences her once more – moments later she pushes back and can't help giggling, he has the silliest little smile tugging at his lips; like he can't quite believe she's letting him kiss her; can't quite believe they're standing here at all.

"Two weeks," she murmurs, "I'll be back in two weeks."

"And?" he prods.

His eyes are dark and murky but Mackenzie can feel his arms tighten around her; knows he's loath to let her go when this is the closest they've been in so long – the closest and the farthest, she ponders, and isn't that always the state of their relationship? Never have two people been at both ends of the spectrum so concurrently as they've managed over time.

"I just need time to think," she tells him – hopes he understands. "We both do."

"Mackenzie if I think anymore I think I'll drive myself to distraction – I don't want to  _think_. I want to move forward. With you."

One of his hands slip up her back and she nuzzles against his neck – they're stood so close that she barely has to push forward and Will drops his other hand to the small of her back and rubs his thumb back and forth, back and forth, in soothing circles.

"Two weeks," she sighs, and Will grumbles again even as she laughs faintly into his shoulder. "Two weeks; don't change your mind."

Her voice is strong but at the same time she's already terrified that this moment will be over – that she'll return and Will will be the way he always is – ominous and taciturn and creeping around her periphery; just out of reach. He nods quickly and she ducks her head, murmuring, "And the - okay."

"Okay?" he questions, voice rough and wavering.

She wishes she could hold him close and go home with him and fall asleep – but she has a family waiting on the other side of the Atlantic and two weeks holidays and – "Okay, Will," she presses.

Thinks; please mean this. Please still be here when I return.

She raises her hands to his cheeks and holds his face a moment, takes in his worn cheeks and small smile and the sparkle in his eyes. She presses her lips to his until over the intercom her flight is called and then slips from his grasp quietly, hand trailing down his chest as he watches her go in her coat and scarf – and as she disappears around the corner, he thinks,  _two weeks._

_Okay._

* * *

 

London is busy.

It's a whirl of small children who stomp up narrow stairs and leave odd shaped toys in the hallway and substitute crying for words when they're upset and angry. It's tea parties with Amelia and pouring water into tiny cups and making sure her pinky finger stays out or the toddler will scowl at her; playing in the park with Peter and James and listening to their endless, endless questions.  _How do ducks float_  and  _birds fly_  and  _can I fly_  and  _why not, Aunt Mackenzie?!_

It's lunch with her mother and window shopping with linked arms in Knightsbridge and watching the news each night with her father only to see the frown between his brows incrementally increase each time they mention the EU or Greece. Julian brings her enough tea to satisfy an armada and Lucy catches her in quiet moments with a knowing smile. One evening she brings out Peter's baby book and they spend the entire night running their fingers along pictures taken when he was only hours old – wrinkly red and screaming bloody murder and dwarfed by Julian's tall, terrified frame.

"It's so scary," Lucy tells her in earnest, "but also something you just muddle your way through. Don't be afraid to ask for help, but don't doubt yourself, either."

She treasures those words late at night and makes her sister-in-law promise she'll field questions at odd hours once the baby is born.

Slowly, slowly she begins to feel calmer – she aches to speak to Will but at the same time doesn't quite have the words. They're building within her and sometimes they itch up her throat, begging to break free. She swallows them done with a forced smile and whispers  _soon_  to herself. Just one more day, perhaps. Or another night.

And then one day she wakes in fits and gasps with his name on her lips – his hands around her waist and his body pressed to her own until she finally caves and calls him in the evening, says, "I'm such an idiot," and, "I'm sorry – so sorry," and Will simply hums down the phone and mumbles, "Finally, Mackenzie," until she laughs.

 

* * *

 

"I mean it," Mackenzie presses.

The room is dark around her and there's a tree outside the spare room that keeps tapping at the window. She's been sleeping here over a week but still can't keep the dull throb of unfamiliarity growing whenever the room is dark; strange shadows cast on the wall and the bookcase is stocked with old picture books and photo albums to the right – even the blankets and pillows are scratchy and weighted differently. Some nights she wakes smothered beneath them whilst other's she's shivering until dawn.

She's tucked her feet in the curl of the heavy blanket and has her phone pressed as tight as possible to her ear. Will's voice always sounds so different over the phone; there's less depth and accent – everything sounds slightly disjointed and wrong. She misses the way he growls out words or the nuisances of his sarcasm when he mumbles back at her. Misses the way his eyes crinkle when he's passionate and angry and the way his lips can't help but smile when he's amused.

"I'm still scared I'll hurt you," she whispers, and Will is silent on the other end of the phone. She supposes that's apt – there isn't much he can say that won't sound trite in comparison. He can assure her that she won't, though history doesn't support them. He can say he doesn't care; though they both know he does.

He simply lets her speak and stumble through her thoughts no matter how broken – "I was confused, and afraid – I wouldn't let myself trust what we had," she tries to tell him. Sometimes she thinks back on their relationship and wonders how she could be so blind – how on earth she could think Bryan was a safe alternative when all she was feeling for Will was so profound.

Will terrified her for so long because he was everything all at once; the end of a journey she'd become accustomed to - and so easily attainable.

Whilst Bryan was a struggle, Will seemed to be in love with her from the moment they met – all soft touches and quiet words and smiles. She didn't know what to do with Will's affection, not when she'd struggled for years to draw from Bryan anything more than some hasty words and familiar hands.

The problem with Bryan was that he was familiar in the way that old t-shirts were; comfortable to thrown on quickly when things were tough, but any longer and the holes and dirt and stains became visible – she and Bryan could never last because they were two opposite ends of a spectrum that never met whilst she and Will fitted in and around the other; filled the gaps and the shortcomings and argued their way through the rest.

Down the other end of the phone Will is silent a moment before asking softly, "And now?"

Mackenzie pauses, takes a breath. When she speaks her words are hesitant but true and she hopes Will can hear it – hopes he understands how desperately she means it when she says, "Now it all seems so insignificant," because it does.

"I don't want something difficult, I don't want to question it. I just want you - and Samuel - to come home to at the end of the day."

His breath hitches at their sons name and she realizes that she's slipped it into conversation naturally – like he's already here. Not a tiny body growing inside her, but a living, breathing self. It feels right, however, to talk about him as a person; their child. She wants Will in her life despite him but at the same time he – Samuel – gives them both so much more. A connection – a family.

"I want that too," Will responds, and she feels herself calm.

Will's breath is steady down the line and she can't help but yawn, utterly exhausted. Her body feels liable to float away – relaxed in a way she's hardly understood in years and Will tuts once before telling her gruffly to sleep, "I'll talk to you tomorrow," he tells her, and she nods despite the empty room.

There's a halt in his breath but then moments later he whispers, "I love you," before hanging up.

 

* * *

 

_Two Weeks Later_

Now, and he doesn't turn on a light as he stumbles into the room;  _idiot man_  – he stubs his toe against the low bookshelves lining the windows and as he groans and hops, Mackenzie can't help but suck in a breath. He pauses but doesn't seem surprised by her presence and though she can't see him in the dark she wonders if he already knew she would be here.

"Hi," she murmurs, and he exhales quickly before mumbling back her name, rough but warm. He leans against the bed and the mattress concaves slightly – she tucks her legs up beneath her and the baby seems to protest at the movement – there's a ripple under her skin but at least he's stopped pressing against her lungs – she can breathe better now than she has in weeks and it's a wonderful feeling, especially coupled with the periodic flutters and kicks.

"How was London?" Will asks, voice seemingly interested. She can see his outline now that her eyes have adjusted and he's striped bare save for the towel around his waist. He picks up an end of it to rub at his chest and she's distracted for a moment by the curve of his body – the breadth of his shoulders that tapers into his waist and his thighs - she exhales softly and he pauses; for a moment they're still.

Will shuffles towards the bed and she feels as his hand ducks down beneath the pillow to search for his sweatpants and t-shirt. He pulls them on quickly and within seconds is under the sheets and shuffling towards her – there's an awkward second but then his hand is large and warm on her waist and she leans into him gratefully, slides her leg up over his thigh and presses her face into his chest.

"It was good," she mumbles, but Will is breathing deep and she's sleepy again; voice sluggish and slow. Will's heart is beating quick under her ear and it's deafening in contrast to the stark silence – she nuzzles in closer and he slips his hand around under her waist – it rests against her stomach, his fingers warm and tingly where they meet her skin. He rubs there and she sighs deeply; already half asleep.

"Can I stay here?" she asks, barely above a whisper.

Will pauses a moment, and she stiffens.  _Does he understand?_

"Will-"

"Yes, please," he rumbles, and she lets her body relax as his hand rubs up the small of her back. There's a surety in his arms around her – a strength and knowledge that underlies their words – when she asks to stay she doesn't mean the night and when he says please, he's asking so much more.

She falls asleep to the constant thrum of his heart. He drifts, content.

 

* * *

 

In the morning they move slowly around the other – it's a Saturday so neither of them has to be at work and Mackenzie listens over a plate of thinly sliced bananas and peaches as Will tells her about the office.

Don and Maggie aren't engaged – and she breathes a little easier at that news. And Jim had fielded her job well.

"But I prefer you," Will tells her, avoiding her eye as he pours a mug of tea. She hums in satisfaction – feels the familiar curl of professional jealousy subside. She hates the thought of any broadcast she's not apart of, or any time when she's not the one mumbling directions or stray comments into his ear.

The office has been tense, Will tells her as he joins her at the bench. Sloan has been acting particularly strange, he mutters.

"She refuses to be in the same room as Don," and Mackenzie waves a hand dismissively – that's old news – and bites into a peach. The juice runs sticky, down and under her chin and she winces, telling Will, "She's been avoiding him since August."

But Will isn't listening. With a knowing smile she wipes the juice from her skin and licks at her finger thoughtfully – his eyes blow wide and she reaches out a foot to nudge against his bare ankle under the bench. He jumps at the unexpected contact and Mackenzie snickers delightedly; leaves her toes pressed against the arch of his foot as Will mutters into his tea.

"This is nice," she murmurs thoughtfully. Will pauses with his nose just visible over the rim of his mug and his brows are crinkled, like he's confused. Mackenzie waves a hand around them – the apartment is bright and breezy, soft music is playing idly from the adjacent room and Will's still wearing the t-shirt he went to bed in; wrinkled and warm.

"All of this," she amends, and he seems to understand a little better now. He nods shortly and places his mug on the bench, grabbing her hand and wincing when he finds it still sticky with fruit juice – he pulls her up off the stool and with an insistent tug, after him through the apartment.

They reach the door to his spare bedroom and before he opens it, Will bends his head and lifts her hand – licks her sticky index finger from her knuckle to the tip and his tongue is wet and rough and hot. She feels him all the way to her toes and he smiles quirkily at her, her whole body tingling.

"I was busy while you were away," he mumbles. He nudges the door open and it takes her a second – her brain still hotwired to the tiny presses of his tongue – to realise the room is bare and bright as the sun streams through.

She wanders in and notices the inbuilt wardrobe to the left; the wide space below the floor to ceiling window – the soft, buttery yellow of the walls that glows invitingly in early spring morning.

"We don't have to be here," Will's telling her, "We can live somewhere else – or  _you_  can live somewhere else," and he pauses, hesitant. "But you mentioned wanting to come home to Sam and myself – and I think this is a good place to start."

Will's hand is still heavy in her own and she squeezes it, gazing at the soft walls in wonder – she can imagine filling this room with tiny furniture – toys and books and a comfortable chair and maybe some pictures; music, perhaps – and stories, and laughter.

"It's beautiful," she tells him, voice soft and in awe.

She turns and collides into his arms, squeezing his middle. "Thank you, Will."

 

* * *

 

Later that afternoon they settle on the floor in the baby – Sam's – room and Mackenzie tells Will about Amelia's flowerpot men in the back garden and Peter's insistence on collecting rocks when ever they walk through the park and James' loud, high voice when he screams for his parents from the other side of the house.

Will listens quietly; nods and hums and even laughs and Mackenzie somehow finds herself leaning against him, halfway in his lap. By early evening she's leant back against his chest and Will has a hand across her stomach that strokes softly.

He leans his head against her shoulder from behind, closing his eyes, and thinks,  _Welcome to your home, Sam._

* * *

 


	11. The Fundamental Things Apply

* * *

 

There are little things that Will has forgotten.

Like Mackenzie's frigid toes on late February mornings and the tickle up his calves as she presses them into his skin. Her refusal some days to let him share a shower because she's in a hurry and he's  _distracting_  even though both of them are like walking zombies only capable of lifting a bar of soap; the press of her shoulder when she leans against him whilst messing with her hair, eyes catching in the mirror whilst he shaves and she fusses and scowls and pulls at her ponytail. How she snorts with laughter behind her hand when she's amused and taps her foot against the back of her calf whilst standing in the kitchen listening to music and how she always, always takes the economics section from the newspaper with the intention of reading it and never, never does.

Tiny little moments that were once permanently a part of his mornings and are slowly, like molasses under gravity, seeping back into his world.

 

* * *

 

The first morning they wake together (actually  _together_ , with Will's arm around Mackenzie's waist and her face pressed into his neck and the knowledge that this thing is permanent now, not waiting for an end) Will spends ten minutes holding the back of Mackenzie's neck and rubbing his thumb into the soft dip at her hairline, soothing her in her sleep. He remembers the action from years ago; how she'd sometimes complain that her neck ached on cold mornings and he imagines that after a series of international flights, not to mention six years and multiple warzones and pregnancy, that the aches and pains he once knew by heart can still be mapped up and down and across her pale skin.

She's warm in his arms and draped across his chest and when she breathes he can feel the air stir across his bare skin. He shivers lightly and curls his toes at the end of the mattress where the blanket has bunched up. No wonder they're both so cold this morning, he realizes, only a light sheet is still draped across their legs.

He moves to pull it back up but stops at the last moment lest he wake her – she's comfortable and calm and the tips of her fingers are resting at the curve of his shoulder where the sleeves of his shirt have ridden up. Each little pressure point is weighted and intimate – he can feel her touch down to his bones.

There's something so inherently intimate about Mackenzie that has always marveled him.

He's not young, and before he'd been aware of her existence Will had spent many years acquainted with the female voice and body and form. Women were warm and nice to hold and soft to touch and yet firm and bold at the same time – they sounded both strong and beautiful – touched him and made him feel more than he was, something greater and stronger and smarter than he could ever believe and then Mackenize McHale had stumbled into his life and he'd realized the rest were nothing in comparison.

Mackenzie had taught him intimacy; delicacy and the sublime nature of existing alongside somebody else. Knowing Mackenzie was like learning the world all over again, but this time with new sights and tastes and colors.

There was the faint blush of her cheeks and the deep red of her lips when they were bitten and the dusting of perfume and shampoo and something technical, something electrical, under her skin – like the newsroom was alive around her and seeping into her – everything was suddenly technicolor and hyper-real. He became attuned to the presence of her body near his; noticed the soft wave of her hair brushing her shoulders or the twitch in her jaw when she was tired. Knew to speak softly when she was irate lest he start an argument or to speak short and abrupt when he was itching for a fight; knew a million and one things about her, more than he ever supposed was possible – and still ached to crawl inside and underneath and discover more about the light behind her eyes and the brains behind her words and her smiles.

He supposes that might be what love is; being intimately aware of somebody else's everything and wanting to get closer still.

Now he finds himself brimming with knowledge about her – useless little tidbits that he's discovering are either still true or have shifted and changed. She's no longer so flighty, no longer restless like at any moment she might disappear. She sleeps heavier in his arms at night and he loves that she now feels permanent.

She was always an octopus of arms and legs and clinging fingers but now it doesn't feel so desperate – not like they're madly trying to hold on to something gossamer; but instead like she's supposed to be blanketing him down, a good weight upon his chest.

Will rubs his thumb delicately along her hairline and gets lost thinking about the empty room on the other side of his wall that needs a fresh coat of paint, and maybe some curtains, and it isn't until Mackenzie snuffles quietly and rubs her nose into his chest that he realizes he's been awake and holding her almost an hour.

She wakes slowly, with her hair in wisps and tangles that she'll grumble over later and Will is glad that it's the weekend and they've nowhere to go. He runs his hand up through her strands of hair and cradles her skull as she peers up at him sleepily. She's blinking to try and clear her gaze and he smiles when she mumbles good morning against his chin and presses her nose back into the crook at his collarbone.

"Too early," she mutters and Will passes a hand down beneath the sheets and her shirt to find the skin of her back. He spreads his fingers out and kneads them into the dips of her spine and after a few seconds she groans softly. Her knee shifts higher up against his thigh and Will presses his lips to her temple in a quick succession of kisses.

"We should stay in bed today," she mutters around a moan before nestling her forehead into his shoulder. Will chuckles and the vibrations shudder up her spine. He teases her, "should we?"

"Yes," she grounds out determinedly.

Whilst two seconds ago Mackenzie had been loose and lax now she straightens and swings her leg wide across his hip so that she's straddling his thighs and settled on top of him. Her hands land on his chest and Will finds himself blinking up at her serene face, eyes blazing with a newfound morning spirit as she kneads her fingers into his sleep warm skin.

Her shirt's riding up and the baby's little bump rests comfortably where she's sitting on his stomach. It's such a strange sight – such a strange reality that he's found himself living. Never did he imagine he'd be spending another morning watching Mackenzie slowly rub circles into his skin, and whilst it's not some rom-com movie ending, not a happily ever after (lord knows they've still got mountains worth of crap to deal with and stumble through), for the first time in a long time at a base level he feels  _happy_.

He covers the backs of her hands with his own and squeezes around her wrists until she dips down and kisses him, familiar and sweet. She's smiling against his mouth and Will can feel the ends of her hair tickling his cheek and chin and it's distracting in the best possible way – as is the press of her stomach against his own where the baby's just grown large enough that it's starting to make its presence known - so distracting that he almost misses her wandering hand tickling down his side.

He jumps, and Mackenzie's nose bumps his cheek as his hands dart out to grab her sides and in a second her face swims back into focus with a confused frown crinkling her eyebrows.

"You okay?" she whispers, still sleepily gruff, and Will sighs hesitantly, muttering his assent.

Mackenzie isn't so easily convinced and her hand is still resting dangerously low against his side and Will wishes her fingers would stop ghosting along the hem of his t-shirt; but at the same time wishes they'd never stop. He stays silent because the issue is stupid and narcissistic and Mackenzie will most likely laugh at him if he voices it – lord knows it's something he'll have to get over soon if her hand is anything indication of interest and Will wishes they weren't doing this in the bright morning light.

"Will," Mackenzie prods again, voice musical and knowing, like she might charm the answer out of him if she smiles hard enough (which she can, not that he'll ever tell her that. It takes a great man to hold strong against her smile). Her hand finally dips underneath his shirt and runs quickly up his chest and Will shudders beneath her as she leans forward again.

"Talk to me," she pleads, and it takes Will a moment to realise his eyes have slithered shut.

When he speaks his voice is low and gruff, faltering slightly under the press of her body heat over him; "Are we doing this?" he asks quickly, and Mackenzie's brow crinkles further.

"Doing what?" she mumbles, confused. She can't be that confused, however, he ponders, because she dips her head down to kiss lightly at the juncture of his neck and shoulders and within seconds has graduated to deep, wet mouths of skin. She swipes her tongue along his stubble rough neck and Will jolts automatically beneath her, squeezing her hips tight. She presses them down in retaliation and Will growls quickly before running his hands up her back.

"This, you mean?" she questions coyly, and Will grunts in affirmation, curling his hand at the base of her neck to angle her head down.

"This," he mumbles between kisses – nipping at her bottom lip until she smiles and opens against him. He forgets, somewhere amongst the heat of her body and the curl of her fingers and the sweet playfulness of her mouth as she nips at the side of his own, about the reason he'd faltered in the first place. He's wanted Mackenzie for forever – from first moment he laid eyes on her all those years ago and despite the longing and then the waiting and then the heartache and her eventual return; despite all the times when she emphatically  _wasn't_  his, he's still always wanted her. Will always want her, come what may.

It isn't until she tugs forcefully at the hem of his shirt and his mind blanks and then flashes sexnakedmackenzieoldohdeargod _why_ that he remembers again that the last time they did this and were sober he was at least 5 years younger and a little bit fitter and not so  _old_.

Dammit.

Mackenzie has both hands cradling his face and her hair is a dark cocoon of lovely smelling shampoo and fresh vanilla when he snaps his eyes open. Will can feel his cheeks heat beneath her fingertips and she's wonderfully still and quiet now, waiting for his words without judgment.

"I'm just having one of those moments where I feel old," he finally mutters, and then tightens his grip on her hips in annoyance when Mackenzie snorts loudly, laughing.

"Will, you've been having those moments as long as I've known you," she teases, and though he's loath to admit it, it's true.

Hell, Will's been having moments of extreme self-awareness ever since a crazy man in a bowtie cornered him at a luncheon and asked if he'd ever considered broadcast television and journalism instead of moving his way up the legal ladder.

After all, one does not spend five out a seven nights a week on national television and not build up a steady sense of negative self-consciousness.

"Are you really worried about this?" Mackenzie asks after a beat. She's pulled back a little, just enough that Will can see her eyes in the early morning light and he wonders sometimes if she realizes just how enchanting she is.

"It's been a long time," he grumbles, well aware that he sounds ridiculous. He is largely a ridiculous person, no matter how straight and gruff he manages to present himself. Mackenzie's always known that, and taken pleasure in reminding him on occasion.

"Not that long," she reminds him now, stealing his hand and pressing it to her bump.

He rolls his eyes because what part of recreational drug use does she not understand,  _honestly_. Everything looks and tastes and feels wonderful when one is flying high – her enjoyment of sex four and a half months ago has nothing to do with him and everything to do with those damn cookies no matter how right and real it had felt at the time.

"Mackenzie," he grumbles, and she giggles again _. Minx_.

"You don't get it, do you?" she sighs wistfully, eyes still bright with merriment. She leans closer and Will goes cross-eyed trying to keep his gaze on her, giving up when her nose bumps his cheek and her lips close against his ear and her fingers snake up into his hair.

"I love you," she murmurs, voice low and sweet, like a caress, "and despite your tendency to be slow and  _stupid_ I think you're wonderful and smart and generous and gorgeous."

The last word is whispered like a secret and Will feels warm and itchy all over, but more than that he feels wanted and it's such a wonderfully hot feeling – spreads through him like molten honey.

"I feel like I should also mention that I'm four and half months pregnant Will, and for some reason that means all I've wanted to do for the past month is get you naked and on this bed," and then she pauses _, imp_ , and whispers darkly, "So, please?"

She has a hand rubbing against his chest and with the other she tugs up his shirt and Will wriggles helpfully to be rid of it  _yespleaseyesyesyes_. With quick hands he has Mackenzie's shirt sliding up and off her arms and then she's falling forward with her hot mouth and tickling hands and strong thighs and Will is  _lost lost lost_  in the lovely sensation of her.

 

* * *

 

They break for lunch hours later on the carpeted floor of the spare room - Samuel's room – with a plate of cold lettuce and tomatoes and carrot and ham and bread spread between them. Will is contemplating the food mutely and Mackenzie is nibbling at the end of a carrot like it's chocolate and both of them have their backs pressed up against the wall with their legs extended and crossed before them.

"We could just be boring and paint it blue," she mumbles, glancing to her left where Will sits. He nods thoughtfully, poking at a piece of lettuce in abstract horror, before picking up a slice of bread with ham and cheese and biting into it hungrily.

"How about yellow?" he asks around a mouthful, and Mackenzie crinkles her nose at him in despair.

"Perhaps."

"Or green?"

"Like, mint green, or forest green, or Irish green?"

Will pauses, confused, "Just, green?"

Mackenzie scowls and sighs, "That's a terrible colour to paint a bedroom."

"We need those little tabs of paint samples," Will provides helpfully. He gestures to the blank white walls and Mackenzie's eyes follow his hand like little laser points. She squints at the wall and he wonders if she's trying to imagine it all different colours – reds and yellows and greens and blues.

She purses her lips like she's come to a decision and Will waits as she turns back to face him, "It should be a pale colour, no matter what we decide," she announces and Will bites into his sandwich despondently, disappointed that they're no closer to an answer.

"Pale?" he mutters; wonders for a second if Mackenzie is making everything up as arbitrarily as he is.

She hesitates, and he knows with a triumphant curl of victory that she is.

"It seems like something people would do...paint the baby's room in light colours," she says finally and Will rolls his eyes. He glances down at her stomach where Samuel – his son, and that's never going to stop being a mind trip – is busy growing fingers and toes and brain cells.

"Poor kids got no chance with parents like us," he gripes and Mackenzie huffs, but doesn't disagree.

It's stupid, of course. Academically he knows that he and Mackenzie already love the little boy intrinsically, would do anything for him, have the means to support themselves and enough brain cells between them that there's every chance Samuel McAvoy will have every opportunity in life.

But it's easier on both of them to joke about being useless; it takes the sting out of the restless, floating feeling they both have whenever they think of being parents. They don't know what they're doing – unlike muddling through international conflicts and arguing fluently for progressive social reforms and debating corporate tycoons on national television, having a child is new and terrifying and completely without a guidebook, no matter how many times Elliott has offered Will his old and battered copy of  _What to Expect_.

At least if they're both joking about the prospect of parenthood, they're feeling useless together.

"We need a crib," Mackenzie murmurs, barely loud enough for Will to hear and when he glances at her her eyes are wandering around the room slowly. Her eyes are wide and deep and she has a hand resting lightly on her stomach; something warm pools in Will's chest at the sight and he can't help but think that in 4 and a half months they'll be holding that child.

"And a rocking chair. And a bookcase. And clothes."

Will hears the exact moment Mackenzie's breathe catches and so he reaches his hand across to hold her own, squeezing around her wrist tightly. "We've got time," he reminds her, and she settles a little.

"Not a lot," she tells him, and she sounds young and fragile. He tugs at her wrist and she tips to the side until her head's resting against his shoulder. He wraps his arms around her back and she leans against him, breathing into the soft fabric of his worn Henley.

"Let's focus on the paint first, we'll worry about the rest later," he suggests and her bangs fall across her forehead to obscure her eyes as she nods against him.

They sit in silence a moment, the wide windows covering one wall of the room bathing it in soft sun butter yellow. It's light and makes the room feel bright and airy and Will rubs his thumb across Mackenzie's knuckles rhythmically whilst thinking of the soft babies blanket that Maggie had given to him weeks ago. It's just a few shades darker than the sunlight seeping into the walls and Will can't help but think that it suits the room – wide and open and beautiful.

"You mentioned yellow?" Mackenzie murmurs against his shoulder and he smiles because she's watching the walls closely too.

"Just like that," he nods, pointing to the patch of direct sunlight.

Mackenzie hums and shuffles further down into his side and Will can feel her falling asleep against him – she's more tired in the afternoons now, happy to daze off following lunch.

Will can imagine a chair by the window and long afternoons bathed in sunlight and a sleepy child struggling in vain to stay awake.

It's a good thought.

 

* * *

 

On Monday it takes Will approximately 12 seconds to realise that he has an arm wrapped around Mackenzie's back in the elevator.

They're under no illusions that Mackenzie will be returning to her apartment for any great length of time, not that she's relinquishing it just yet – they're both too volatile and hesitant to make that grand decision – but Mackenzie hasn't left his apartment since she arrived home and late Sunday afternoon she'd brought over enough clothing to last her a week and Will has started finding her belongings scattered all over the place again (not that he understands how, she's only been back in the country four bloody days). Her shoes are at the door and her scarves are on the coat stand and Will's discovered three different types of tea in his pantry that he never even knew existed (Turkish apple? Really?)

On Monday morning they dress for work and Lonny picks them up with a small, approving smile and Will would sock him in the jaw if it wouldn't break his hand, because the bodyguard's been sending him frowns for months over the state of his and Mackenzie's tattered relationship – he's not allowed to be smug now.

The shuffle into the elevator and Will finds himself nodding and smiling at various vaguely recognizable faces and it's not until the fifth floor when Mackenzie's phone vibrates in her coat pocket and he feels it shudder through him that he realizes they're basically pressed up and wrapped around each other.

No one's looking at them strangely and they're not exactly a secret anymore. Will's sure the entire building's thought they were together from the start, even before the pregnancy, so no one's going to notice the shift in their relationship even if it has only just changed.

But that doesn't mean he's not suddenly aware of himself in close relation to Mackenzie. He shuffles back from her slowly and Mackenzie shoots him a disapproving glare. He's not sure why though it's just as likely to be because she enjoys using him as a heater. It's still chilly this early in the morning and Mackenzie had spent the entire ride to the office hiding in his side with her hands tucked in his pockets.

"I have to see Charlie," he whispers, resting his hand on her elbow. She nods but doesn't tip her head up towards him. She has her phone out and is madly scrolling through emails and the switch from home Mackenzie to work Mackenzie is almost funny. She hums and that's all the acknowledgment he gets even as she stands with their bodies so close their feet and arms are touching.

She's so caught up in messages that he has to push her out the door at their level – she startles and glances around the elevator quickly and Will can't help but smirk as she blinks wildly. "I'll see you at the meeting?" he suggests, and his words seem to rattle her from her work induced stupor.

She nods and then sends him a smile and Will pushes at her waist before she gets caught in between the closing elevator doors.

The last thing he sees as they close is her slightly befuddled face and he can't help the eye roll and grin as she finally becomes aware of her surroundings.

Next to him one of the admins from the 44th floor smiles at him like they're adorable and suddenly Will realizes that he's back in a relationship that other people are aware of, with a partner and he's in love and shit, why does his life keep getting so complicated? He panics briefly but then remembers the little tab of yellow paint samples stuck on the wall in the spare room and the run of Mackenzie's fingers down his spine as he'd stood in the scalding hot shower in the morning and her head bumping into his shoulder as he'd tried to steer her through the crowds on the ground floor.

And so by the time he's reached Charlie's office, and the old man's greeted him with a large smile and, "how are you?" and a terribly colourful bowtie, for the first time in a long time he can answer truthfully, "I'm really well."

 

* * *

 

The rest of the week passes in a blur of meetings and broadcasts – the election is at the end of the year and even though it's late February already it feels like they're being snowed under by campaigns. Will's madly trying to decipher the worthy from the ridiculous and he and Mackenzie keep clashing over how much time to devote to the rest of the world – every time they share an icy glare or short words the entire room freezes like the rest of the team expects them to self combust and Will's taken an almost pleasure in baiting Mackenzie just to see Jim's eyebrows creep steadily up and up his forehead in quiet dismay.

Maggie corners him late Friday afternoon and with a furtive glance both ways enquires whether things between he and Mackenzie are any better now that she's returned from London and Will smiles delightedly, tells her that he and Mackenzie have never been better, and then sits back with a smug smile as Maggie leaves his office looking more confused than when she came.

The only real change in Will's existence is the sudden occurrence of a sex life and that leaves him so oddly calm and pleasant that the rest of the team never knows how to talk to him.

It infuriates everyone except he and Mackenzie who spend their time arguing and then flirting and then smirking at each other whilst everyone else tries to keep up.

 

* * *

 

Sunday, again, finds Will and Mackenzie spread out on the floor of Sam's room, this time sharing a slice of cheesecake that Mackenzie had picked up on a whim late Friday afternoon.

It's thick and creamy and Mackenzie keeps taking tiny bites and then closing her eyes happily. They're supposed to be picking a shade of yellow to paint the room but the call of the cheesecake had been too strong and they'd somehow found themselves devouring it on the floor instead.

Instead of paint, Will's first thought is to drag a few comfortable chairs into the baby's room because it's steadily becoming their favourite place to sit and talk and ponder.

"Did I show you this?" Will asks, remembering the soft blanket folded in his back pocket in tuffs of bright yellow. Mackenzie darts her gaze to him and raises an eyebrow, mouth closing delightfully around a forkful of cake. She swallows and Will follows the movement down her throat and by the time he's realized he's now staring at her chest she has a finger flicking him in the side of the temple painfully.

"Eyes, mister. And show me what?" she admonishes, but Will just smiles at her because, bluntly put, he's finally allowed to look and touch and taste again. He's distracted once more but quickly recovers and pulls the tiny blanket from his pocket to dangle it in front of her.

"Maggie gave me this a few weeks ago – Sam's first present. She found it at a kids shop and I think the apparent 'cuteness' of it overwhelmed her," he explains drolly. Mackenzie isn't listening, though. Her lips are parted carefully and she's gazing at the blanket like it's both the most gorgeous and terrifying thing she's ever seen, but Will understands – it's hard to imagine that soon a little person will be folded within it.

"Cute, huh?" he huffs when she remains silent, and it takes her a second to tear her eyes away and instead gaze at Will.

There are crinkles around her eyes from her smile and Will can't help but chuckle at her expression. He holds the blanket out to her and she touches it reverently, still silent, folding it between her hands and rubbing her thumb along the soft satin edge. She runs her fingers along the embroidered animals and rests them on the little dancing elephant and Will can't help but think of that one trip he made to the zoo when he was tiny, barely five years old. Uncle Lucas had been there, and his mother and Annie. His father had been working he believes, not that his absence was noteworthy. He'd adored that day, though he can hardly remember it - only the fresh smells and bright colors and the fun of spotting animals hiding behind trees.

"Do you like the zoo?" he asks Mackenzie, intrigued. He knows a million things about this strange, wonderful woman but there is still so much he doesn't.

She hums delightedly and nods, "I love animals. When I was ten my mother and I went to South Africa for two weeks and we visited Johannesburg Zoo and Kruger National Park and I feel in love with giraffes. For about a year afterwards I was convinced I was going to be a zoologist."

And Will thinks fondly,  _of course you were_.

Sometimes he forgets just how widely traveled Mackenzie's always been. It took 18 years before he ventured much beyond his little patch of land in Nebraska and by the same age Mackenzie had stamped off nearly every other time zone.

Just over a year into their relationship they'd taken a month off work and traveled through greater Europe – starting in London but then crossing over to Norway and then Germany and Poland and Serbia and Turkey and Russia with a dozen other stops in-between. Listening to Mackenzie muddle their way through Moscow with her lilting accent forming the deep Russian words is still on his list of the most amazing, startling and sexy things he's ever experienced, but the trip had also taught him how much  _fun_  it was spending time with her.

For the most part their relationship has always been built on a strange, passionate attraction - both physical and intellectual – but they've also always been great friends.

He thinks, perhaps, he missed that almost as much as the intimacy. Mackenzie's friendship – companionship – is as important to him as her heart and her mind and her presence.

"Let's go to the art gallery," he announces suddenly – the ache to get out of the apartment and  _explore_ with Mackenzie overwhelming him. She eyes him amusedly but doesn't object and it's still early enough that they'll be able to make it through a few exhibitions. They'll have lively debate and undoubtedly a few arguments because they've never been able to agree on art – that's the main reason Will loves seeing it with her.

He pushes himself up off the floor with a loud groan –  _way way too old to be hanging out on the floor, Willam_  – and reaches a hand down to help tug Mackenzie to her feet.

In the bedroom she places the blanket delicately on their bed and Will passes her a thick black scarf when she mutters about losing it and Mackenzie manhandles him into wearing a pair of jeans just so she can hold the belt loops as she trails after him and by the time they're out the door Will realizes that the bubbling in his stomach is excitement.

They wait for the elevator side by side and Will takes her hand and turns to press his lips to her forehead like they've been doing this forever – and in some ways they have. He thinks a part of him always knew his life was simply waiting for Mackenzie to return to it.

There's an old couple that he doesn't recognize on the ground floor and they smile warmly as they pass. For all they know, he and Mackenzie could be married, and he likes the thought that no one would otherwise be able to tell.

He'll marry her one day, probably.

But today they're content to explore.


	12. Mother's Day; Part 1

* * *

 

Mackenzie was born on a Sunday.

She was 33 weeks along, difficult from the moment she was born according to her father, and spent the first few weeks of her life in a tiny incubator in the hospital, developing her lungs and learning to swallow and slowly gaining weight until one day the nurses smiled delightedly at Eloise McHale and announced that tiny, baby Mackenzie was ready to go home.

Home, of course, was all relative to Eloise. She and Edward had been living in New York for just under ten months and whilst she’d met their neighbours, and the wives of most of the men in Edward’s office, she still felt the clawing ache to return to England before bed each night. It was made all the worse when she returned home to their apartment with Julian’s toys scattered down the hallway and her china doll daughter cradled in her arms. What she would give to have her mother standing beside her, she’d thought in those earlier days. It had been easier with Julian, so much easier when he barely cried and slept easily through the night and her friends and family were no more than an hour away in London.

But Mackenzie was difficult. Taciturn and tearful and almost nocturnal in her sleeping habits, and Eloise and Edward spent months walking up and down the long hallway in the apartment, hushing Mackenzie against their chests and praying that just this once she would fall into an easy slumber.

She was so small and delicate, and as she grew into a toddler she was never happy to totter along behind her brother – instead she would always run ahead. By the time she was six Mackenzie had broken her right arm and grazed her knees more times than Eloise cared to remember and the most common noise in the McHale household had grown to be Mackenzie’s parents bellowing her name in despair.

 

* * *

 

It’s almost fitting, Mackenzie decides so many years later, that as they draw closer to Sam’s birth, she too is in New York, whilst her parents are across the ocean. She’s never felt reliant on having her parents nearby, a trait brought on by spending most of her childhood scattered across countries, and whilst she and her mother have always had a sweet and relatively good relationship, she’s never been one of the girls who relies on her mothers every word.

But she thinks perhaps having them closer would make the coming months easier. There’s something in her heart that wasn’t there five months ago – she’s sure some people would call it a motherly instinct, but Mackenzie doesn’t know what it is. All she knows is that the thought of Sam makes her heart tug in all different directions in the same way the thought of her parents, and Julian and Lucy and the children do.

It’s family and familiarity and comfort all wrapped up in one and she wishes they were all here to share in it. Seeing them over Christmas, and then spending time with them in February has reminded her all over again that her family _is_ important, no matter how far away from them she’s roamed. And as the last of the frost melts and the seasons trickle from winter into spring she finds herself curled up in the small lounge chair she and Will have placed in Sam’s room, gazing out the large open window and watching the sun peak around buildings and cast long shadows on the ground, aching to feel them close.

 

* * *

 

She calls home one morning after the rundown meeting has been done and the team have scattered to their desks to prepare interviews. Eloise McHale answers with a delighted, “Darling how are you feeling? Is the baby well? And yourself? And Will?” and Mackenzie is overwhelmed by her mothers high, tinny voice down the receiver.

“We’re fine,” she hums back, remembering the warmth of her mothers embrace the last time she’d seen her. There’s something wonderful about being held by her mother, as if all the words they’ve always stumbled over – and they often do, Eloise has never completely understood her daughter – can melt away with one, loving action.

 “Are you busy?” Mackenzie asks.

Eloise tuts and says, “Of course not, dear. Your father’s out to lunch with boys and I’m trying to rearrange the library into an actual system,” and Mackenzie can hear the amusement in her mother’s voice. Her parents were always teasingly complaining about each other when she was younger, from her fathers haircuts to her mothers affinity for fine china to their disagreements over where to spend Christmas each year, and sure enough Eloise continues muttering, “Fifty years I’ve been married to your father and never once has he been organised. I’ll never know how he did that job. We’re lucky the Prime Minister didn’t fire him!”

“He knows where everything is,” Mackenzie murmurs, amused. It’s nice to know something’s never change, even her parents. “He’ll be upset if he comes home and you’ve moved everything,” she tells her mother, and Eloise simply huffs, and ignores her.

“He should be grateful,” she finally announces, and Mackenzie leans back in her chair and closes her eyes and lets her mothers chatter wash over her for half an hour, despite the work scattered across her desk.

“Was there something you wanted, darling?” her mother finally asks and Mackenzie sighs gratefully.

“No, no. Just wanted to talk.”

Eloise pauses a moment, but when she speaks her voice sounds understanding, “Of course dear. Anytime,” she says, and Mackenzie feels something new and profound beat in her chest – _motherhood_ , perhaps – something now shared between the two of them.

 

* * *

 

It was spring – March 8th to be precise - the first time Mackenzie truly terrified her parents.

She was four years old and barely taller than her mother’s hip and at a stage where she took delight in repeating her brother’s words until he was almost sobbing with anger. It usually resulted in her being sent to her bedroom, but on the occasions when they weren’t at home Eloise and Edward would split up with the children until Julian had calmed down and Mackenzie had been sufficiently berated.

They were travelling through Singapore Airport and the air was horribly humid. It was towards the end of the wet season and Mackenzie couldn’t understand why the weather was so awful when back at home it was still so cool. She’d been wearing a light summer dress with a knitted cardigan over the top and her hair had been in two pigtails until she’d grown sick of them and tugged at the ribbons until they’d fallen out.

Perhaps it was the weather that upset the children so much, but what ever it was, she and Julian had been in terrible moods and Mackenzie couldn’t help herself – when Julian asked for a book to read, or a drink, or an apple, she immediately parroted his words back.

“Stop”

“Stop”

“Mackenzie I said stop!”

“Mackenzie I said stop”

“Mom she’s doing it again!”

‘Mom she’s doing – “

“Enough!”

The exchange had been brought to a stop by Edward – frazzled and disorganised and with his mind already half in the meeting he was headed to back home. He’d gripped Julian’s hand and marched him away from Mackenzie but before Eloise could do the same with her daughter, Mackenzie (who was tired and cranky and couldn’t understand why _she_ kept getting in trouble for everything) bolted.

Singapore Airport was large and busy and frightening and Eloise had lost sight of her tiny daughter within seconds. In the space of minutes her heart had gone from fluttering to pounding painfully, as if it might beat right out of her chest if Mackenzie wasn’t found soon, and all she could think of was what might happen to her daughter. A million and one what ifs – dangers and accidents and wrong flights and kidnappers and by the time Mackenzie had been found, ten minutes later in a seat at the far end of the terminal with her ribbons in her hand and tears streaming down her cheeks, Eloise has been so overwhelmed and terrified that she’d held Mackenzie to her chest the entire flight home.

She still remembers that day, so many years late. It’s one of the many Mackenzie stories that are shared over family lunches when Julian wants a laugh, but each time it leaves Eloise feeling strung and terrified; the phantom feeling of losing her child is still as horrible as it was that first day.

Mackenzie can also remember the feeling of her mother’s arm hugging her too painfully, and the sharp relief in her fathers voice and the way even Julian had stood just a step near her for the next week, as if they were all afraid she would disappear again.

“Is it really that bad?” she asks Julian one night.

It’s early in New York, a few hours before broadcast, and she can see Will talking quickly with Jim in the newsroom out the windows of her office. It must be late in London but Julian had rung her “just to see how you’re doing,” he’d declared vaguely. She’d rolled her eyes and announced she was perfectly fine but now it’s twenty minutes later and Julian is telling her about Amelia’s tumble down the stairs at playgroup earlier in the day and how she’s now the proud owner of a Dora the Explorer bandaid.

“The fear?” Julian responds. “Yes. It never stops and it never gets better and sometimes, even when nothing’s wrong, you can feel it churning in your stomach.”

“You’re not helping,” she tells him meekly, and Julian laughs down the other end of the phone.

“Being a parent is the most terrifying thing in the world, M. But you’ll cope.”

She can’t help but chuckle and if Julian hears the disbelief in her voice, he doesn’t say anything about it. She wants to believe that she’ll be able to cope with everything; that between she and Will they’ve enough brains to figure parenthood out together. But sometimes she doesn’t even remember to put her socks on in the mornings, or eat breakfast before work, or to take an umbrella when it’s pouring. And Will is sweet and caring but also prone to irrational outbursts, and times when he doubts him self so much he shuts himself off from the world for days on end.

“Mackenzie you don’t suddenly change when you become a parent. But there isn’t a mould you have to try and fit either. You just figure it out around the person you already are – and make the rest of the shit up as you go along,” Julian tells her.

“Yeah?”

“Promise, little sister.”

And she scoffs because he’s never called her that seriously before, he only does it to annoy her because she thinks he sound ridiculous.

“Lucy and I are always a call away. And we _want_ to hear about our nephew, understood. None of this only calling every few months bullshit.”

“You know you could pick up the phone as well,” she tells him, “I’m very busy.”

“Not _so_ busy, Mackenzie.”

She pauses, but then mutters warmly, “No. And I’ll try.”

“Good girl.”

And if she were near him she’d probably slap his shoulder for his impudence. “Good night, Julian.”

“Good night, M.”

Later that evening, after the show, she copies the latest sonogram picture and writes, _here’s your grandson_ on one, and _here’s your nephew_ , on the other, and seals them both in envelops to send to London.

 

* * *

 

Mackenzie’s stomach, along with spring, begins to really show in late March.

She’s is almost 6 months along and the days are already warmer but the air is still fresh, not laden with the humidity that summer brings. In the streets people have started wearing shorter sleeves and linen scarves and spring dresses; there are clear days and green leaves sprouting from branches and the view out Will’s bedroom windows is breathtaking on blue mornings. Some days she wakes early just to sit and watch the sun rise, sifting her fingers through Will’s blonde-grey hair until he snuffles into the pillow and rouses awake.

One morning he pokes a finger gently at her stomach and Mackenzie glances down to realise that there’s something very defined about the bump now – she’s so obviously pregnant, but still at a stage where it’s not overbearing – and Will spends a few minutes just watching her stomach closely, as if he might catch it growing if he stares hard enough at the smooth, stretched skin.

Later, his hands are slippery and soft in the shower as he rubs soap into her shoulder blades and down her back, and they both spend half the time leaning against each other and the wall, trying to blink awake.  When they step from the shower the tiles are warmer and the air isn’t quite so chilled – it’s nice dressing in the spring sunshine in the bedroom instead of the dull, cold grey of winter, and Mackenzie finds herself wearing lighter colours in celebration. She’s submitted to maternity clothes after a lengthy battle against them, but most of her old shirts and blouses still fit and she’s slowly grown to appreciate pants that stretch instead of button.

Mackenzie’s always enjoyed spring – whilst summer is too hot and unbearable (and she doesn’t want to think about what it’s going to be like, being nine months pregnant mid-July) – spring is the perfect balance of warmth and light and pleasure.

She arrives at work to Maggie’s bright clothes in pinks and yellows and blues and Jim’s slightly warmer smile when he greets her with a mug of tea and a cracker. He’d started bringing them to her weeks ago, when she’d leant against his shoulder for five minutes straight in the afternoon, gripping his hand tight and not letting him go until her head and her stomach had realigned and her back had ached a little less and she’d stopped feeling like she was going to tip over. Jim had been so frightened that she was over-exerting herself, or forgetting to eat again (like they were back in Peshawar and he’d have to remind her every five hours to stop and breathe and sip at a glass of water) that he’d made it his own mission to provide her with sustenance each morning. He’s sweet and soft spoken when he finds her and often he’ll ask about her day and the baby as they sit in her office and sift through notes. She always answer the same, that she and Sam are good, and Mackenzie treasures the sparkle in Jim’s eye when he sees her drink her tea, like he’s succeeded in providing something for the both of them.

 

* * *

 

Around the corner from the Bureau office in Peshawar that Mackenzie and Jim had worked out of for 4 months, there was a small orphanage of around fifty children established by RAWA, the Revolutionary Association of the Women of Afghanistan. Mackenzie didn’t notice if the first few times she passed it. There were similar orphanages set up throughout the city and surrounding provinces, for children who’d lost one or both parents, or whose parents were so impoverished they couldn’t care for them any longer, and she’d been to a few in Afghanistan with the Marines and seen first hand the work that was done to provide and educate the children. 

They were amazing, heart-wrenching places, tucked away amongst the rubble and the fighting – little pockets of smiles and learning and growing children who were being given a second chance. But she’d had no reason to notice the decrepit building down the road from the office until she’d been hurrying back from a protest in the city and had noticed a small girl peaking her head around the door, large brown eyes wide with fear as she watched the woman staring back at her.

Mackenzie had hesitated a moment – it wasn’t always wise to talk to people on the streets without welcome, and even less so to a child when she didn’t know what was on the other side of the door – but the little girl hadn’t moved and she seemed somewhat fascinated by Mackenzie and the camera she was holding, so Mackenzie had called out hello in Urdu, then again in Pashto, just to be understood.

She didn’t receive any words in answer, but the young girl had smiled until there were dimples in her cheeks and then disappeared again behind the door, leaving Mackenzie with a smile and a soft feeling in her heart that was hard to come by most days.

From then on she’d made a point to walk passed the orphanage, and whilst it was usually closed, occasionally she would catch a glimpse of the children within and offer a smile. It was calming to know that so close to the constant disharmony and threat of violence there was a place of almost innocence that she could find whenever things were tough.

She never saw the little girl again, but one day whilst walking by with Jim there were a group of children on the doorstep scratching rocks against the stone pavers and playing a game. They’d stopped as the strangers hurried passed but one of the boys had recognised Mackenzie and smiled widely – she’d nodded and greeted them all in return and it wasn’t until minutes later that she’d noticed Jim’s silence.

“What?” she questioned, digging through her bag for the extra camera lens she’d stashed there in the morning.

Jim had shrugged with a crooked smile, and she’d remembered once more just how lucky she was to have him by her side in this shamble of a region as he’d muttered awkwardly, “You’re good at that – with children.”

Sometimes now, when he catches her rushing between meetings and frowns until she slows down, or wordlessly guides a mug of tea into her hands and forces her to sit, or asks awkward questions about how the baby’s growing and developing, she thinks of that moment and remembers Jim’s blushed cheeks as he’d complimented her, and the children in the doorway of the orphanage and the kids they’d often see running through the streets in the late afternoons.

She has hundreds and hundreds of photos of smiling, dimpled faces because the children always wanted to have their photos taken and would then scramble over to see it appear on the tiny camera screen.  Mackenzie has never known what to do with them all but they sit on her computer and sometimes she finds herself scrolling through the mass of faces, remembering the dust and the dirt on their cheeks and how their small hands had clung to her arms as she’d passed the camera between them.

“You’ll be good at this,” Jim mutters just as awkwardly one morning over tea and she finds herself blushing hard this time.

But she believes him.

 

* * *

 

By late April, she’s almost reached the stage where having a pregnant stomach is becoming somewhat of a hindrance. Between the ache in her back and the breathless feeling every time she tries to move at a slightly faster pace than a snail and the little flutters in her stomach that are the baby hiccupping and moving around and kicking, everything is strange and exciting and also terribly annoying.

She wakes one morning to find the skin across her stomach itching – it’s tightening and stretching to accommodate Sam’s growth and some quick googling reveals that the itch is completely normal but it drives her crazy all day and she has to lock herself in her office at lunch because she’s so sick of being around people when her body’s trying to come apart at the seams.

She’s aloof all evening and ends up snapping at Will during the broadcast until even he looks startled. The rest of the team disperses around her quietly and she escapes back into her office without a word to rest her head in her arms and cry.

Will finds her half an hour later and manages to coax her into her jacket and towards the elevator and she’s so exhausted by the time they return home that she collapses into bed without changing. She can feel Will pull the shoes from her feet and the pants from her legs and then reposition her to tug her shirt off but she can barely find the energy to thank him, so instead she pulls him down for a clumsy kiss and pats his cheek as her eyes flutter shut, falling asleep in minutes.

 

* * *

 

Most days are bearable however, and the aches and pains and discomforts are good signs that things are progressing normally. She learns to treasure the moments when her body is itch-free and not sore, and by the first week of May she and Will have started taking drives upstate on the weekends to relax and get out of the city.

Will claims it’s because he’s growing old and restless and needs the peace that only open space can provide, but Mackenzie’s sure he just wants to get them alone and somewhere different – somewhere that’s not his apartment but isn’t likely to be overrun with people who know his name, whilst Mackenzie’s still happy to be on the move.

They find famers markets and art displays and handmade jewellery stalls and content themselves with enjoying the peace and quiet that comes with anonymity. They end up in Cooperstown one day and Mackenzie wakes from a nap in the car to find Will smiling stupidly at the beautiful Otsego Lake spread before them. It’s a gorgeous view and as they step from the car – Will has somehow, blessedly, convinced Lonnie that he doesn’t need to accompany them on these trips - they both pause for a minute to enjoy the fresh, spring air.

“Walk?” Will asks, voice rumbling from little use whilst she was asleep on the journey up here, and Mackenzie nods contently, following him towards the main stretch of road. There are gorgeous, small shops down the entire way and people with open, smiling faces selling an all manner of products in market stalls from fruits and vegetables to clothing and watercolours landscapes of the lake; but it only takes Mackenzie a few minutes to figure out why Will’s brought them here. Cooperstown is home to the National Baseball Hall of Fame and every second shop and stall seems to sell baseball cards and memorabilia.

“Baseball,” she deadpans, and he shrugs mutely with a quirky, boyish grin.

“Market’s first,” she demands, and Will spends ten minutes walking close by her side before he tangles their fingers together tight. “I’m being slow today,” she warns him, because she’s been shopping with Will before and knows that he hates meandering. But Will merely shrugs like he has no other care in the world – he lets her drag him through the market and stays silent when she stops for ten minutes to talk with an old lady selling vegetable seeds about gardening and she only notices him pull out his phone twice to check updates and sift through his emails.

He nudges her shoulder as they’re stood next to a stall with an artist sketching caricatures and she leans back to follow his gaze. There’s a little pocket of tables down the road with a vender selling toasted, hot sandwiches and Mackenzie’s mouth waters a the thought of them.

“Food?” Will asks and she nods determinedly – it’s almost two in the afternoon and they’ve been on the move since early morning.

The sandwiches are blisteringly hot to touch and they pick at the edges of the crisp bread with red-tipped fingers until they cool. “This was a good idea,” Will nods thoughtfully and Mackenzie isn’t sure if he means the delicious food or the day in general.

“It was,” she smiles, agreeing either way.

She acquiesces to his twitchiness later and lets him drag her through the Hall of Fame with little protests. A museum is a museum no matter what it commemorates and she finds herself draw into the history and the displays almost begrudgingly – and even if it wasn’t interesting, Will’s utter delight at reliving every small detail of the game is amusing enough to watch.

 “Do you feel sufficiently masculine now?” she drawls as they wander back to the car and Will scrunches his face up in protest, dropping her hand to gesture wildly.

“It’s an American pastime, Mackenzie,” he implores with as much conviction as he’d had two nights previous on air.

“It’s a game, Will,” she teases, and the frown above his eyebrows increases.

“Please - stop.”

“ _Just_ a game,” she grins. He nudges her towards the car with his shoulder but then stops her with a hand on her waist and his voice low in her ear.

“One more word and you can walk home.”

 

* * *

 

Perhaps the greatest changes in spring, however, are the ones to Sam himself.

Mackenzie has a book on the bedside table that she flicks through each night and it details how each little change occurs and what should be happening to the baby.

She reaches her third trimester in May and by that time Sam’s grown to about 14 inches, roughly the size of a butternut squash. His bones are mostly developed even though his lungs are still maturing and for the first time since the first trimester, his eyelids are opening again. His hearing is fully developed, and apparently he now responds to light and sounds – if the constant movement is anything to go by the poor kid’s overwhelmed by everything happening around him, and Mackenzie finds herself resting her hand across her stomach to try and sooth him more often than not.

He looks like a proper, almost proportioned baby now and the sonogram pictures are startlingly clear. There are books and pamphlets and too much information to sift through and Mackenzie doesn’t even know where to begin with all of it – but then she’ll remember a small detail, like the fact that soon Sam will begin growing hair, and everything else seems to fade into the background.

The butter yellow walls of Sam’s room glow delightfully in the bright spring sun and the small bookcase they’ve put in the corner is already filling. They’re mostly Mackenize and Will’s –old classics that Mackenzie has had in storage for years such as _Anne of Green Gables_ and _Winnie the Pooh_ and _Tom Sawyer_. All with dusty, fraying covers that she likes to run her fingers along when she sits in the room. They’ve added a comfortable chair and more often than not, when Will returns home separately he’ll find her curled up in it with a novel.

“You’ll have to give this room up soon,” he teases her, disrupting her trip through Narnia. She closes _The Lion, The Witch, & The Wardrobe_ and purses her lips, considering him. He’s stood in the doorway, leant against the frame with his arms crossed and his sleeves rolled to his elbows.

She gestures to the empty space beside her, where they still have to find a cot. “I’ll just sit him there and keep reading,” she responds dryly, and Will shrugs with a soft smile, accepting her answer.

“How are you feeling?” he questions, and she likes that he’s no longer hesitant when he asks her. There’s a surety in their movements around each other that the last few months has provided, and Mackenzie beckons him closer with a crooked finger.

He pushes his shoulder from the doorframe and walks towards her, crouching down by her seat.

“I can’t breathe properly and every time I get up I feel dizzy if I move too quick and I have to drink even more milk Will, _milk_ , because apparently the little sucker’s absorbing all the calcium he can from me, and then there’s the heartburn and the –“

“Okay. Yep. I get it,” Will interrupts, and Mackenzie grins wickedly at him.

“You asked.”

“I’ll remember not to, next time.”

Will stands slowly and groans as his knees pop and Mackenzie holds out a hand to request he help her up. He tugs until she’s standing and now when she knocks into his body it’s her stomach that hits him first. She sighs, because nothing is easy when you’re seven months pregnant, but then Will presses a kiss to her forehead and she thinks, at least nothing is terribly hard either.

 

* * *

 

The following Sunday Mackenzie wakes slowly to Will’s wide, brown eyes and a small smile on his face. She struggles to open her own eyes and blink past the fuzzy feeling in her head, and when she does he leans forward to kiss her softly.

She’s sleeping on her side because sleeping on her back leaves her dizzy, so she buries her head under his arm and rests a hand across his chest, gripping the material of his t-shirt tight.

Spring has been a good season, she reflects – and though it’s almost over and the city’s heating up and the humidity is rising, she’s looking forward to sweltering through summer.

Will’s drifting his fingers through her hair and it takes him a moment to remember why he wanted to wake her, but when he does he pauses until she lifts her head to glance up at him.

“It’s Mother’s Day,” he tells her simply, and Mackenzie is still with her hand lying over his heart.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

She smiles and he rubs his thumb into the dip of her neck where it lays and she drops he head back down to his chest contently. It’s a Sunday so they might stay in bed, or they might go for a drive, though Mackenzie’s back has been worse lately and she doesn’t like sitting still for long. Perhaps they’ll spend the day in Sam’s room rearranging the bookcase for the millionth time and eating lunch off plates as the sun warms the walls and carpet.

“Happy Mother’s Day, mom,” Mackenzie murmurs, and makes a note to call Eloise later in the afternoon.

And at the back of her mind, she thinks _next year._

 

 

 

 

 


	13. Father's Day; Part 2

 

* * *

Will was born on a Friday.

Unlike Mackenzie, who came into the world so early her parents knew from her first breath that she would always be trouble, Will waited until the last possible moment to be born.

It was a hot day in mid-August and Rosemary McAvoy had spent the past two weeks in bed, sipping water and reading through the pile of magazines and books her sisters had left her. She hadn’t been prepared for motherhood. She was young and Will was her first child and nothing that her friends or family had said had made her feel like she would be able to care for him. She’d spent the months leading up to birth growing steadily more terrified of her child, and Robert hadn’t been much help. He was excited about the baby, but spent all his time at the workshop and Rosemary couldn’t help but wonder if he would be this distant when the baby arrived.

“What if I can’t do this?” she’d whispered into her mother’s arms one afternoon. She could feel the baby kicking against her palm and her mother’s own fingers as they drifted through her hair but it was hard to believe that she could one day be this person; a mother holding her child – she’d still felt so young and unprepared.

But then Will had been born, all red faced and screaming and covered in blood, and they’d wrapped him tight in a blanket and passed him into her arms and Rosemary had felt a strange calmness settle over her, like perhaps she’d finally found something she could anchor herself to. Will hadn’t stopped screaming but his tiny fist had pushed up against her chest and she’d held on to it tight whilst her husband stood close by her shoulder.

Whilst moments ago the room had been filled with her own startled breaths and groans and Robert’s broken encouragements and the urging of the doctor, now there was only a resounding silence and the soft whimpers of the baby as he calmed and Rosemary started to understand – it didn’t matter what else happened, as long as she was there to hold him, they’d be alright.

“What should we call him?” she’d asked, with her voice still rough from labour. She could feel the sweat gathered at the base of her neck and streaked through her hair and across her forehead but none of it seemed to matter anymore, not when the tiny baby’s cries were slowed to a hiccup and Robert was reaching out a hesitant hand to cradle the infant’s head.

“William?” he’d murmured, “After my father?”

And Rosemary had smiled and peered at the wrinkled red face hidden amongst the blankets.

“Of course. _William_.”

 

* * *

 

Fifty years later, Will dreams.

It’s a weekend and he’s home in Nebraska with his brother sitting beside him on the back porch of their old house, overlooking the garden. When they were very young, the boys would hide in the backyard between the bushes and the trees along the border of the fence and their mother would stand at the back door and yell their names whilst they giggled into their hands and tried to stay quiet.

Growing up, Will realized she must have known where they were hiding. They were hardly inconspicuous four and seven year olds, and the backyard hadn’t been large enough that she wouldn’t have been able to find them in a few seconds – but he likes the thought that she allowed them that place to hide; a place to feel safe when they didn’t want to do the dishes, or to wash their hands before dinner, or when their father was home from a long days work and was gruff and rough handed and angry.

In his dream they’re watching the sunset across the tops of the houses surrounding. It glints off the copper tiles and the entire, semi-urban landscape is bathed in a dusky red-orange glow as Michael chatters in his ear.

He’s holding a bottle of beer in one hand and Michael’s talking about the job he had the other day, rewiring a house for an old lady down the road whose place would have gone up in flames during the winter without work, and how she’d had these two dogs that had chased him around the backyard when he was fetching something from his truck and all Will can do is smile at him, taking a long sip of his beer and relishing the cold drink as it curls down his throat and the sound of his littler brother’s laugh as he grumbles about growing older.

It’s a nice dream; nothing more than the two brothers sharing a beer, but it’s slow and relaxed and so life like that when he wakes moments later he’s left with a horrible, hollow feeling in his chest – like he should ring Michael and ask about his day just to hear his voice, even though it’s 3 in the morning.

He doesn’t often think of home, but when he does he remembers Claire and Annie fighting over the mirror when they were teenagers, and Michael following him around the baseball pitch when he was five, and the four of them crammed into the back of their fathers truck for the three hour drive to visit their grandparents. He remembers Annie’s first boyfriend when she was 16 and coming home from College and taking him aside to threaten him with a baseball bat, and teaching Claire how to ride a bike without training wheels down on the basketball courts behind the community hall.

One the bed beside him Mackenzie is sleeping peacefully but his head feels alive with a million memories and pastimes and the more he tries to shut his brain down and fall back asleep, the more he remembers – birthdays and holidays by the lake and making go-karts in summer to ride down the hill near the school.

His childhood wasn’t easy, but it was filled with wonderful moments of fun and freedom with his siblings and whilst he doesn’t often think about it, on the rare occasion that he’s back home in Nebraska, or talking on the phone with an excited Claire, or the every practical Annie, he finds himself missing their camaraderie and smiles and the sense of home they bring.

The bed shifts and Will feels Mackenzie’s fingers trail down his arm softly as she snuffles and wakens. “What’s wrong?” she asks, and her voice is rough and groggy.

He turns a little on his side to face her and can barely make out her eyes in the dark. She’s lying on her side with her legs tucked beneath her protruding stomach and Will wishes things were more comfortable for her now, but at 8 months and with only a few weeks left until Sam is born, nothing is easy or normal.

The aches and pains and nausea of the first trimester have returned, and the added bonus of an almost fully grown newborn pressing up against her lungs makes lying, sitting and standing a nuisance – meaning she’s never still for long.  
Sleeping, in particular, has become rather difficult and Will’s grown used to being prodded and poked awake at all hours. “Practice, for when Sam does it,” she tells him tartly when he grumbles, but he thinks if the kid’s going to be waking him over the next few months the least Mackenzie can do is let him treasure as much sleep as possible now.

“I had a strange dream,” he tells her, and the room around them is silent but for their laboured breathes and the sounds of his watch ticking on the bedside table.

When Will had been young he’d been fascinated by the differences in sound between day and night – how his footsteps could be unheard in the morning but when he was trying to sneak into the kitchen for a drink at midnight it sounded like a herd of elephants across the savannah – but now he just thinks it’s oppressive; a terrible reminder that neither of them can sleep.

Beside him, Mackenzie shifts closer and he can feel the warmth radiating off her skin through her light shirt. She’s stubborn, he’ll give her that, but the heat’s been waging a strong battle against her composure recently and he doesn’t know how much longer it will be until she gives in.

“What happened?” she questions. Her voice is sleepy and he wonders if she’ll drift off again soon. He hopes she does; she’s been so exhausted lately and he hates getting to the end of the day and finding her with her head in her hands and a weary smile as she rests at her desk. The other night he’d spent five minutes coaxing her from the couch in his officer where she’d curled up after the broadcast, and she’d been so sleepy and out of it that there had been tears in her eyes by the time they got home.

“Nothing much,” he tells her now, and lets a hand drift up to run through her hair. She hums and pushes her forehead into his palm so he rubs his thumb into her temple soothingly.

“I was with Michael and we were back home – it was nothing important,” he mutters. Outside he can hear a car alarm beeping loudly – it’s startling clear in the dead of night – and it drowns out the ticking of his watch for a few seconds.

Mackenzie’s silent and still by his side and for a blessed moment he thinks she might be asleep again before she murmurs gently, “I think that’s very important. Have you talked to them recently?”

His fingers drifting through her hair hesitate a moment and that’s all the indication she needs to know the truth. “Will,” she starts, and he grumbles before she can continue.

“I talked to Annie a few weeks ago.”

And Mackenzie knowingly mutters, “That’s because she rings you religiously every second Friday.”

Will tuts and ignores the comment, adding, “She said to say hello, by the way” offhandedly remembering Annie’s stern words, and he can feel Mackenzie’s disapproving glare through the darkness.

Annie had always had a soft spot for Mackenzie. Both of his sisters did, actually. Something about her being worthy enough for him – “Not like those blondes you parade through Manhattan,” Claire had once announced loudly over Christmas dinner; and whilst he’s certain Claire doesn’t know the first thing about his dating history beyond what she’s read in gossip magazines, the sentiment had been nice to hear.

“You should talk to Michael tomorrow,” Mackenzie tells him, and he can hear her falling asleep as she murmurs – her words are slurred and her breath is slowing and her fingers against his chest are resting heavy.

“I’ll think about it,” he responds – all the while thinking of the evening he’d told Michael about the baby. His brother had been stunned on the phone when Will had rung him all those months ago. At first he’d chuckled, as if Will was making a joke, and then when the silence had prolonged and Will had muttered his brothers name just to make sure he was still on the other end, it had been followed by a low and startled, “Fuck. Will. Really?”

Neither of them has ever been overly talkative with each other, but Will was always protective of Michael. His brother was the happiest of the four children when they were very young and Will can remember being determined to keep that light in Michael as long as possible. He’d take the blame for accidents around the house, or hide Michael’s hundreds of paintings and pieces of art from his father, just so the young boy wouldn’t be subject to the old mans disapproving glare.

He doesn’t know if Michael even remembers any of that, but sometimes his siblings will say something special – a whispered thank you or a message on a birthday card that makes it clear that they understand how much he once sacrificed to keep them safe.

(And he hates that. He hates that he had to do it – hates their sympathetic looks and their words even if it warms his heart at the same time. God, what he wouldn’t give to have had a normal childhood with a decent father and not have to live with the image of the tears on Claire’s red cheeks when she was three years old and their father had yelled at her for three minutes straight for dropping her knife at the table.)

He should ring Michael, however. And Claire, and Annie. He should ask about his nieces and nephews – the eldest of whom is almost 23 much to his horror (where on earth did all the time go?). Soon they’ll have a new cousin in the family and Will wonders if any of them ever thought that he’d be adding to the mix.

“Sleep Billy,” Mackenzie slurs at his side and he can’t help but chuckle deeply at the moniker. She only uses it now when she’s utterly out of it, or trying to convince him of something.

“You too,” he admonishes, and with a hand still in her hair, drifts to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Jim interrupts him the following morning with a hesitant knock at his door.

Will has a pad of paper on his desk and a pen in his hand and he’s been starring at the same two blank top lines for half an hour. He has something important to write, but he can’t for the life of him think how to start.

“Are you busy?” Jim enquires, and Will grunts without looking up.

“No, no. Just thinking,” he sighs, “What’s wrong?”

He sets the pen down and pushes the pad to the side of his desk and thinks fuck it, that letter won’t be written any time soon. He’s heads a mess at the moment and he doesn’t know if that’s caused by the recurring dream of sitting on his back porch with his siblings (last night it was Annie and she spent the entire time griping at him about how to change a spark plug, even though he’s sure she doesn’t know how to) or the deeper, curling anxiety over Sam’s impending birth.

It’s only a month away now and Will’s starting to feel himself panic again.

“We’ve got an extra thirty seconds in the B block and I wanted to know if you wanted to cover Greece or Syria or something entirely different,” Jim tells him quickly and Will’s silent a moment – he can’t remember the last time they had an extra thirty seconds _anywhere_ , but that’s beside the point.

Greece is on the verge of forming a new government but Will’s skeptical that that will do much for the country and Syria’s just been declared in a state of Civil War. Just days ago Hillary Clinton had accused Russia of giving the Syrian Government helicopters to attack the Rebels; not to mention the Egyptian elections coming up in days. Every damn morning he wakes up to more international news that puts the world on edge and that’s forgetting completely the mess that is his own country. America has an election in five months time and already it feels like half their 42 minutes is being devoted to wading through the crap that comes with election campaigns.

“Let’s say Syria – but run it by Mackenzie?” he answers, waving a dismissive hand in Jim’s direction as the senior producer nods and then scatters.

Will settles back into his desk and sends a glare in the direction of the blank notepad – it’s just sitting there. _Mocking him._ And then he notices Jim still hesitating at his door.

“Jim –“

“Is Mackenzie alright?” the young man asks quickly, and Will freezes a second.

She’d been fine when he last saw her – but that _had_ been a few hours ago.

“What’s wrong –“ he starts to ask but Jim interrupts, avoiding Will’s gaze and speaking quickly and awkwardly.

“Only she was short with Maggie this morning – and she’s never short with Maggie. Ever.”

“She’s eight months pregnant Jim. She’s _literally_ carrying around another human being now.”

“Yeah. No, I know. But –“

“ _Eight months_ , Jim,” Will stresses.

He’s well aware of how volatile Mackenzie’s been over the past few weeks – just the other day she’d locked herself in Sam’s room for five hours until he’d managed to convince her that coming out for food was more important than ignoring him  - but he doesn’t think Jim quite understands it.

“So she’s fine?”

“She’s eight fucking months pregnant Jim. I’m pretty sure the last thing she is is fine. But there’s nothing wrong with her, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jim looks less settled then when he entered Will’s office, but he nods hastily and retreats back into the newsroom and Will pushes himself back until he’s resting comfortably in his chair.

Sometimes he wishes Sam would just hurry up and be born so everyone can figure out what the fuck they’re doing and return to normal.

 

* * *

 

The broadcast that night is a mess of international conflicts and election conflicts and Will spends half of it wondering how Mitt Romney ever ended up as his party’s candidate. Perhaps if they’d had that debate they wouldn’t be in this mess – but there’s no use dwelling on the past.

He has the blank notepad sitting under the desk during the broadcast and every time there’s a break he stares at it mournfully, tapping his pen against until it drives Mackenzie to distraction.

“Would you concentrate,” she growls in his ear, and he rolls his eyes but relents and glances back at the teleprompter.

 

* * *

 

Charlie parades into the studio just as the final credits roll and Will can’t help but sigh knowingly – Charlie’s holding two ACN mugs and a half empty bottle of scotch and that can only mean he wants to talk seriously; _like grown ass men._

 “Good show,” the old man announces jovially and Will accepts his ACN mug without comment. He lets Charlie pour him a glass and takes a long sip, relishing the burn of liquid down his throat before he loosens the tie at his neck. He’s never liked wearing them, and he doesn’t understand how Charlie can work each day with a bloody bowtie strangling him.

“What brings you here?” he asks finally, and Charlie shrugs, smiling and content.

“How are you?” he asks finally, and Will huffs; he’s really sick of people enquiring after him.  

“Fine, Charlie. I’m fine.”

“And the baby?”

“Still existing, as far as I know.”

It’s a short and almost antagonistic response but Charlie’s always put up with his bullshit – it’s what makes them work, Will likes to think. Charlie’s unendingly positive until he explodes and Will always expects the worst, and is delighted when it’s improved on.

There are a few men still dismantling the camera but apart from them the studio is empty. Will’s not connected to the microphone into the control room anymore so his words are somewhat private – and Charlie’s remaining silent meaning he’s waiting for Will to crack. 

Fuck it, he thinks. If he’s going to be forced into an adult’s conversation than he’s going to go for it.

“What the hell am I doing?” he mutters, “How the fuck do you be a parent?”

Charlie, bless him, must have been expecting this outburst because he merely raises a knowing eyebrow and sets his mug down on the anchor desk carefully.

“It’s about 30% luck, 60% improvisation, and 10% knowing the babysitters phone number by heart, kiddo.”

Will cracks a smile and even manages a chuckle but the tight knot in his stomach hasn’t lessened and he wonders if anything will help it – probably not.

“Seriously though,” he mutters, just in case Charlie’s holding out on him, but the older man merely shrugs and shoots him a quirky smile.

“You’ll be fine Will,” he tells him honestly – and Will wishes he could believe him.

“Charlie I don’t know what I’m doing. I barely know – or care – to look after myself. And Mackenzie and I are good at the moment, but we’re both so, so –“

“Stupid?” Charlie interrupts, and Will glares at him before taking a long mouthful of whiskey. Dutch courage he thinks – maybe that will get him through this.

“I do love her. And I don’t want to hurt her – or leave her. But I’d be an idiot if I didn’t consider the possibility that thinks might not work.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Charlie,” he implores. Will drops his head to his hands and grumbles, “Just – how the hell do you even raise a boy?”

It’s not that he’s completely useless when it comes to them – he’s quite certain they enjoy running and sports and getting dirty and avoiding baths. And whilst he’s happy to take the kid along the to baseball in summer, he’s not sure he’s up to chasing a toddler around a park or negotiating bedtime.

“Don’t beat your self up over it – the kid hasn’t even been born,” Charlie tells him. The old man’s wearing a soft green bowtie and Will can’t decide if it clashes with his suit or not. “You and Mackenzie are smart, good people. You’ll be _fine_.”

“But what if we aren’t?” Will mutters, and that’s the crux of the matter; the problem with waiting so long for something so entirely life changing. He doesn’t _know_ how to figure this out until Sam’s arrived and he hates that he’s not confident enough to believe in himself before that.

Across the anchor desk Charlie is staring just over his head with pursed lips, and with his mug dangling in his hand precariously, he muses, “Will, I never had a son - ” 

And because humour has always been the easiest way to deal with these situations, Will grumbles back, “Is this the moment you tell me I’m like the son you never had?”

Charlie chuckles “No. This is the moment I tell you I never had a son so I don’t fucking know how to help you.”

“Oh.”

Will sobers a little, but Charlie’s still smiling bemusedly at him and the knot in his stomach is wound a little less tight.

“Before Louise was born I never had daughter, and I didn’t know how to raise them either, but I think I did a pretty damn good job with the one I got, don’t you?” and Will can’t help but smile. He’s met Louise – she’s quirky and quick-witted and likes colourful socks, obviously a trait inherited from her dad.

Perhaps Charlie is right – after all if he can raise a child it can’t be _that_ difficult.

“Will my father was a returned soldier who spent the first ten years of my life jumping whenever a car backfired and the next twenty drinking himself under the table. And I’m not saying I’m much better than him – but I’m _not_ him.”

Will scuffs the edge of his mug against the anchors desk and tries to avoid Charlie’s stupidly open, imploring face.

“Yeah?” he grumbles, and Charlie reaches out a hand to pat his wrist.

“You’re not your father either. And the fact that you’re so afraid to be him tells Mackenzie and I all we need to know.”

Will nods. Intellectually he knows that. Hell, emotionally he knows that he’d never be able to look his child in the eye and hurt them. But it raises the question of how his own father could and that hurts more than the words, and the glares, and the slaps ever could.

“Thanks, Charlie,” he murmurs with a small nod and the old man pats his wrist once more before getting up from his chair and leaving the studio, bottle of scotch tucked deftly under his arm.

Will sits a moment longer and thinks of his brother coming home on his first day of school with the brightest smile on his face because his teacher had let him stand first in the class line, and how their father had grunted in acknowledgment and then reminded the two boys that the shed out the back needed cleaning before wandering out onto the porch.

That afternoon the two young boys had sifted through the dusty tools and boxes of old mechanical parts in the shed and Will had tried to ignore Michael’s quiet sobs and the tears on his cheeks – he thinks perhaps he’d hated his father more that afternoon than he though was possible.

And this is his problem. Sam’s not been born and he already knows he’d die to protect his child.

What he doesn’t understand is how his own father didn’t feel the same way.

 

* * *

 

A week later and Will wakes to Mackenzie clenching her fists in the mattress on either side of her. “This is very inconvenient,” she whispers into her pillow.

“What’s inconvenient?” he whispers back without opening his eyes. It’s not even six on Sunday morning and he has grand plans to spend the majority of the morning in bed.

She’s silent beside him but he’s pressed close enough to her that he can feel the warmth of her skin near his shoulder. He cracks an eye open and when he turns his head to the right her wide clear eyes meet his – she looks deathly, and he wishes he could do something about it if only to stop her glare. 

“Mackenzie?”

“I’m exhausted,” she whispers, and he turns quickly on his side to rub a hand up and down her arm. Her voice is fragile and he can hear just how tired she is by the way it shakes, and as her eyes flutter closed he keeps his hand moving slow and heavy on her skin, hoping to sooth her back into slumber.

 “Did you get much sleep?” he asks softly and his voice is still rough and worn. Neither of them is bright on weekend mornings and all he really wants to do is curl back underneath the sheets – but Mackenzie looks terrible and he can’t exactly leave her to suffer in silence.

Not that she _would_ be silent.

But he still wants to help make her as comfortable as possible.

“No, not really. I just want him to be born,” she sighs, longing for Sam’s July due date.

It’s so strange to think that in a few weeks their son will be born. It’s terrifying but wonderful all at once because they’ve spent the last seven months preparing for this – it’s like the build up to a birthday or Christmas when you’re a child; everything’s so exciting beforehand but what you really want is the main event.

“Try and sleep, okay?” he murmurs to her, and leaning closer presses a kiss across her brow. Her skin is hot and he frowns before asking, “Water?”

She doesn’t respond other than to hum gratefully and Will leaves her with a light sheet tucked under her elbows to rummage together some food and a drink so she doesn’t starve.

When he returns to bed minutes later she’s curled with her head on his pillow and her hand resting across her stomach and he sighs but can’t help but smile at the image she makes – she’s fast asleep again and he’s grateful that she’s resting. He sets the glass on her bedside table along with the dry toast she’s been favouring ever since the nauseas kicked back in and then pads silently out of the bedroom and back down the hall towards his study.

In there he grabs a notepad and a pen and then with a determined mind endeavours to finish the fucking letter before she’s awake again. He knows exactly what he wants to say but has no idea how to say it. 

He ends up in Sam’s room with its wide windows and the sun creeping up its butter walls and the long shelf he put up weeks ago that already has little animal statues scattered along it – carefully crafted wooden giraffes and elephants and tigers that were a gift from the entire team. Will hopes the poor kid actually likes animals because without anyone really trying, the room has a theme, and it’s decidedly African Savannah.

They’ve left the comfortable chairs by the window because they both like disappearing in here to think and now Will finds himself with the notepad on his lap, bathed in early morning sunlight. It’s peaceful – and he thinks his head might almost be clear enough to allow him to write.

Mackenzie is 37 weeks pregnant now, and as terrifying as that is, it means that if Sam were born today he would now be considered full term – and that at least has given him a time limit. Any day now Sam could be coming home to this room and Will knows he won’t be able to do this after.

Out the window the sun is glinting around tall buildings and Will watches them a while before taking a breath and picking up his pen.

 

* * *

 

Later and Will’s half an hour in to an in depth discussion of the Galactic Empire with Mackenzie’s nephews James and Peter.

He’s often wandered passed during her many Skype calls to London and occasionally he stops and has a chat – though usually it’s with Julian or her father, he’s never really talked to the children.

Mackenzie is still in bed and if he hadn’t checked on her every hour he would be worried that something has happened – but she’s breathing steady and out like a light and he’s glad that she’s finally resting peacefully. He, on the other hand, is trying to explain the New Republics peace treaty with the remains of the Empire and the New Jedi Order to an intrigued nine year old and a confused seven year old whose only real interest is making Darth Vader noises.

“What are you doing?” comes a croaky voice from the hallway, and Will looks up to find a sleep rumpled Mackenzie leaning against the wall. She has a pair of leggings on and a tank top that barely stretches over her belly and her hair is a mess of tangles that he wants to run his fingers through.

Peter and James erupt with a series of “Good morning Aunt Mackenzie!” and “ Will watches Star Wars too Aunt Mackenzie, He’s so cool!” and “Show me the baby please please please,” through the tinny computer speakers and Will jumps slightly at their excitement – one minute they’re sitting peacefully listening to him talk and the next their vibrating with excitement.

 _Boys._ Fuck they’re doomed. But at least they’ll only be dealing with one.

“You were sleeping so I thought I’d take your Skype date,” he explains, rubbing the back of his neck unconsciously.

Mackenzie’s brow creases but she shuffles towards him and rests her hands comfortably along the back of his shoulders to lean into his side. He tips his head to the left and rests it against her shoulder for a second before she leans down and greets her nephews – they’re all a buzz with the excitement of seeing the baby and Will chuckles at their enthusiasm. It must be almost lunchtime in London and he hopes that Julian and Lucy didn’t have plans for a quiet day.

Mackenzie is listening rapturously as the boys describe the circus that had set up down the road a few days ago, “It had real lions Aunt Mackenzie and they roared and Amelia was scared and –“

“It was wonderful!” James exclaims, and his eyes are round with glee.

Mackenzie nods delightedly at them as they chatter and out the corner of her mouth whispers to Will, “How the hell did you figure out how to work Skype? You can’t even operate the internet.”

Will scoffs – because that’s not true at all – he just doesn’t have time for 99% of the Internet. He’s silent too long though, apparently, because after a few more seconds Mackenzie grins and nods as Peter and James re-enact the bumper cars and mutters to Will, “You called Neal, didn’t you?”

His silence is the only answer she needs.

 

* * *

 

The following week and summer has settled firmly across the city. Mackenzie’s no longer at work and Will returns home each night to find the apartment freezing cold and Mackenzie sprawled out across the bed restlessly.

“I hate this,” she groans into his shoulder one evening, “and then adds – this is what they should warn against in the fight against drugs. Unintended lessons’ in recreational drug use – pregnancy.”

“I don’t think that’s a usual consequence,” he murmurs into her hair, and she grumbles against him.

“This is entirely your fault,” she adds and he hums in agreement. He’s happy to take the blame.

 

* * *

 

The reach mid-July and Sam’s due date creeps steadily closer until it’s within a week and Will finds himself with trembling fingers and a weird shaking feeling in his stomach at odd times. He doesn’t know if it’s anxiety or excitement of dread and eventually decides it’s all of them.

He comes home one day from work and Sloan is in the apartment laughing over Elliott’s show with Mackenzie at 10 o’clock, whilst another day he spends the entire afternoon fending off Maggie and Jim’s determined questions about the baby.

(He’s full term and ready to be born and blessedly in the right position and as far as they know all his organs and limbs and brain cells are functioning correctly. There isn’t anything to know other than the kid’s taking his own sweet time and Will almost wishes Sam would be born already – the wait is driving everyone crazy)

And then one evening he walks out of his office and straight into Michael and it’s the strangest, happiest feeling, seeing his brother stood before him in the flesh.

There’s an awkward few seconds when they stare at each other without words and then Michaels’ smile grows and it’s so familiar that Will can’t help but want to hug him, so he pulls him into his office instead so they can embrace without the entire newsroom gawking their way.

“What are you doing here?” Will asks – an unsteady smile on his face. The last time any of his siblings came to New York was years ago – he can hardly remember it now – and he wasn’t expecting any of them to come until at least Sam was a bit older.

“Well someone had to be here, didn’t they?” Michael chuckles.

He looks good – quite like Will but with a softer face and a few less grey hairs and scruff on his cheeks because he’s never liked shaving. He has a warm voice and open arms and Will loves that time hasn’t stamped his brothers softness completely – it’s a testament to his character that he’s a good, empathetic man.

“Annie put you up to this?” Will questions, and Michael splutters and laughs.

“No, No. I wanted to come. She did suggest it but I’d been thinking it. To be honest I don’t think anyone really believed this was happening until you sent those pictures. Shall we grab dinner later?” Michael asks, and Will nods, grabbing his jacket.  

After the broadcast (which Michael describes as _okay,_ with a small shrug and a teasing smile) they go to a bar that Will used to frequent years ago and had almost forgotten about until Michael has suggested somewhere with good steak, and spend the evening reminiscing about childhood and fishing with broken branches and fishing wire in the river that ran along the edge of town, and chasing the little girls that lived on the corner of their street around the front yard with Halloween masks on one summer, and playing high school baseball, and going to work and college and marriage and children and what the fuck Will’s doing.

Michael doesn’t say anything different than Charlie had – or Mackenzie, or even Jim and Sloan (nowadays everyone in the office seems intent on passing out their own little pieces of parenting advice) – but hearing it from someone who grew up in the same household Will had leaves him breathing easier than he has in weeks.  
Michael knows him in a way that none of his friends, not even Mackenzie, ever could and the trust and the faith in his brother’s gaze is overwhelming.

“Will,” Michael tells him, voice low and warm but serious, “you were only a couple of years older than the rest of us, but you were more of a parental figure than he ever was. If that doesn’t tell you all you need to know, than nothing else will. Just love the kid – be interested in him. That’s all that matters.”

And Will murmurs, “Sam.”

“Hmm?”

“We’re naming him Sam. Samuel Lucas McAvoy.”

A happy smile spreads across Michael’s face and Will can’t help but soften and smile along with him. He has a bottle of beer cradled in his hand and he’d forgotten how nice it was to talk to someone that knows him so well.

“It’s a good name.”

“Yeah.”

“Uncle Luke would be proud,” Michael murmurs, and Will nods and drinks the rest of his beer quick.

“You said all I had to do was love the kid,” he starts, voice barely above a whisper. He hates to think about this – hates to burden Michael with the question, but it’s been rattling around his brain for months and someone else needs to hear it.

“Do you think he loved us?”

And Michael is silent.

 “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. But I don’t think it matters anymore.”

And Will thinks, _yeah, it doesn’t._

 

* * *

 

He goes home late that night and crawls into bed beside Mackenzie and curls up in the space around her body with his hand resting low on her hip along the curve of her stomach. He can’t feel the baby but he supposes that might be why she’s asleep so he presses slow kisses across her forehead and whispers stories of his childhood into her hair until his eyes flutter closed.

When he wakes the next morning she’s awake and holding him close and she greets him with a long kiss and a whispered, “Good morning,” and something hot and happy unfurls in his chest. It’s a strange feeling, but he likes it.

“How are you feeling?” he asks with a stuffy, croaky voice, and Mackenzie smiles contently.

“I feel good,” she murmurs.

 

* * *

 

Five hours later and it’s July 14th and Will’s sitting at his desk sifting through notes for a conference call with a professor from NYU when his phone starts ringing– it’s Mackenzie, and he fumbles with it a second before pressing the button and tucking it between his shoulder and ear.

“Hey,” he answers distractedly, sifting through folders. He has a transcript of a radio interview from 2006 that he needs and he knows it’s somewhere on his fucking desk.

“Are you busy?” she asks, and her voice sounds a little distant.

Will pauses, and his heart catches in his chest, “Not right this moment,” he tells her, and then adds “Why?” even though he knows.

Mackenzie’s silent a moment, and then with a hesitant but excited voice she asks, “Are you ready?”

 

* * *

 

[Will’s letter, written July 2nd, 2012]

_Dear Sam,_

_It’s six thirty in the morning and your mom’s still asleep in bed. She’s been having trouble sleeping the last few weeks and it’s entirely your fault, but we’ll forgive you. She’s 37 weeks pregnant now and we’re both absolutely terrified._

_We never expected you. You weren’t planned. You weren’t even really an option._

_But here you are anyway and I hope you know, no matter what happens (or has happened) we’d never change that._

_I met your mother at a New Years Eve Party in 2003. She was young and idealistic and completely charming, and I already felt old and unsure of myself. I fell completely in love with her, even without trying. We didn’t work together then but I’d see her at events, or out with mutual friends (everybody knows everybody in this business) and she was more beautiful every time. It took me two years to work up the courage to ask her out to dinner and by that stage she was my Executive Producer. I don’t know what I ever did in life to deserve that, but it must have been something extraordinary – one minute she was the girl I’d run into occasionally and the next she was in my life every second of the day._

_Your mother’s special, Sam, though I’m sure you know that. I hope I’m still around to remind the both of you. But if I’m not, would you tell her for me now? Tell her that’s she’s gorgeous and that I love her and that I wouldn’t change anything. Well, perhaps a few things. But if I had then we wouldn’t’ have you._

_It’s funny how sometimes things can feel like the worst thing in the world. I lost your mother once and I thought I’d never know love or happiness like that again – I wished some nights that I could go back and do everything over again, or forget what had happened and just move on. Having your heartbroken feels like the bottom of the world falling out beneath you – you’ll know that feeling someday, even if I wish you wouldn’t._

_But it’s not always like that, Sam. Without that I wouldn’t have you and your mom now, and whilst I’m not a big believer in everything happening for a reason, I’m not about to challenge any reality that leads to the both of you._

_I have to warn you. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m a crap excuse for an adult sometimes and occasionally your mother and I forget to eat breakfast, and clean the dishes, and do the washing. You might have to remind us of these things. If you want to go to summer camp, or have friends over to play, or have a bike for Christmas – you might have to remind us. We’re old and forgetful and a bit useless at parenting. But we want to figure it out. We want to be the best for you._

_I don’t know you yet beyond the slight flutter of kicks under your mom’s stomach – but I love you Sam._

_I love you. I’m proud of you. I will always love and be proud of you._

_Love, Dad._

_p.s If you’re reading this without my permission please put this back and know that I will find out. Apparently fathers are sneaky like that. I look forward to finding out._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	14. Sam's Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: so after much deliberation I decided to split this chapter up into two because I wanted the focus to be on Sam and not anyone else and yeah. You'll see. The second part will be up tomorrow.

* * *

 

Sam is born on a Friday.

Unlike both his parents, his birth is relatively quick and without complication. He almost makes it to Saturday, but at 11:42 on the 14th of July his loud, startled cries fill the hospital room and his mother collapses back against the hospital bed, exhausted.

His father is stood by her side with a punch-drunk look of wonder on his face and then the doctor gestures for him to come over, muttering something about cutting a cord and Will takes a hesitant step towards the strange, mottled mess of a screaming baby that now belongs to him.

Nothing in his life has ever been that excruciatingly nerve-wracking he thinks; from Mackenzie's pained face to the ache in his hand where she was holding it to those few, horrid seconds when Sam first came into the world and everyone held their breaths waiting for his voice to kick in.

It had been as if time had stood still, but then Sam had cried out loud and reality had rushed back and the noise and the colour and the texture of life had returned to the moment.

Suddenly there were nurses rushing back and forth around the small room and the doctor was placing something strange and metallic in Will's hands and then Sam had been cut free and now there's a heavy weight, like an extra limb, being cradled tight in Will's arms.

He stands still a moment, trying to process what's happened and then one of the nurses knocks into his shoulder gently and shoots him a smile and it's only then that Will fully realises the strange, warm weight in his arms is Sam - he's holding Sam.

 _His_  Sam.

Fuck.

The weight in his arms feels heavier all of a sudden and he glances down into a startlingly red and messy face, with screwed up eyes and wrinkly skin and white blobs of  _whatever_ across his tiny brow.

"Sam," Will punches out roughly, voicing his name, and then he clears his throat past the heavy feeling in his chest, and mutters, "Hi, Sam, hello," whilst rocking gently.

Sam's face is still screwed up but his cries have lessened softly and despite the thick, white blanket wrapped around his body he has a little hand curled tight and twitching by his chest.

"Can I see him too?" Mackenzie's exhausted, rough voice questions and Will turns quickly; takes once glance at her red face and sweat dabbled brow and her hesitant but awed smile and can't help but smile back.

He feels a little nauseous, actually, but that's perhaps because he's not been so overwhelmed with such feelings in too long to remember. It's bubbling up inside of him and he feels light headed as he steps towards the hospital bed.

"Here," he croaks, and gently passes his son into his mothers arms. Already he misses the slight weight of him, but at the same time he's almost glad someone else is holding the newborn. He's ridiculously small and Will feels too large and clumsy and liable to break him just by breathing – and he supposes that terrified feeling isn't going to dissipate any time soon.

He stays leant up against the hospital bed so that he can watch Sam's face and then the little boys eyes flutter open and Mackenzie makes a soft, awed noise – like all the breath and emotion has been punched out of her.

She must be exhausted but she's holding Sam close to her breast and Will's never been more in love with anything than he is the sight of the two of them. It's swelling in his heart and making his lungs ache as it pushes against his insides but nothings ever felt so good – no high or rush or pump of adrenaline.

"Hi," Mackenzie murmurs at the baby and Will buries his face in her hair as she coos at Sam.

"We did good," he whispers in her ear, because it's hard in this moment to believe that anything they've done otherwise is of any consequence. They've messed up monumentally – both themselves and each other and things out of their control – but they also created the little boy gazing wondrously at them through bleary, unfocused eyes and Will can't help but think that's incredible.

Mackenzie laughs wearily, and murmurs, "Yeah, we did."

 

* * *

 

She falls asleep soon after that.

Sam's been fed and cuddled and Mackenzie looks like she's about drop so Will gently suggests she sleep whilst prying the tiny boy from her vice like grip. She hesitates a moment, but then the thought of slumber wins and she settles back against the bed in minutes.

Will finds himself in a quiet hospital room with a sleeping Mackenzie and his peaceful, well fed son.

"So," he starts, rocking the child gently. He takes a deep breath, unsure how to continue, and then decides sitting down would probably be a better idea lest his earlier dizziness return and he drop the poor boy on his head.

"This would be easier if you could talk," he rumbles. "Actually, perhaps it's a good time to get some things straight?"

Sam's quiet in his arms. Through the blankets Will can feel his feet kick and stutter out from his body sporadically and each time the soft blanket is pushed against his arms and chest something warm settles in his heart. It's so unlike feeling the baby kick through Mackenzie's stomach – that had been like a thousand butterflies exploding under her skin – but now that Sam is real and breathing it's a hundred times more exciting and nerve-wracking.

Will had never realised just how fragile babies are – not just their tiny bodies, but also their individual toes and arms and eyelashes and even their skin.

Sam's been wiped clean of all the mess from birth, but his skin is still rubbed red and purple and wrinkly. It has a fine layer of dry skin that the doctor has assured them will peel of naturally over the next week, but it still leaves him looking like he fought a tough battle with the sun and lost. Will finds himself wanting to cover the little boy in blankets to protect him from the air around him – and that's a stupid thought. But Will's beginning to think that fatherhood is lots of little, stupid thoughts alongside some rather large terrifying ones that are only made better by the feel of Sam's feet kicking against his arm rhythmically.

"You like that, huh?" he questions, because despite his sleepy face Sam's not stopped waving his hands and feet around ever since Mackenzie let go of him. It's almost comical, because his miniscule fingers are still curled into his palm and it almost looks as if he's waving it angrily.

"Yeah," Will commiserates softly, "I'd be pissed off too if I was born."

He takes a moment to simply sit and watch Sam's face; from what they've seen his eyes are a startling blue but apparently all babies are so they'll have to wait and see what they settle on. But his hair is faint, wispy strands of blonde that can barely be seen on his scalp unless you run a gentle finger over them, and Will can't help but feel something warm and proud at the thought of sharing that with his son. He's never really understood how people can match a newborn's features to their parents – lord knows the kids nose looks like a nose and his eyebrows are eyebrows; but his hair is Will's and that's special in its own way.

"You're going to have lots of adults in your life, Sam," he mutters. He's not quite sure what brings on the words, but they feel important, even if no ones around to hear them.

"Very smart adults, who'll tell you lots of important things – and some very stupid things – depending on who it comes from. But I'm first, okay," he smiles.

"My name's Will, and I'm dad. I'm a news anchor – I tell people what's happening in the world. But before that I was a lawyer and I hope I helped a lot of people. That's important, Sam. Helping people is important. You're mom's name is Mackenzie and she's my Executive Producer and I know that's a big word, but it's probably the most important job anyone could have. She gets to make all the big decisions and she keeps me in line, and basically she's the reason I have  _anything_ ," he tells him. His voice softens and Sam pushes against his chest with a rather insistent fist, "Sometimes your mom can be a little insane but she's the smartest person I know and we should listen to her more often, okay?" he whispers. "You'll see what I mean," he adds, and then settles back into the chair with Sam cradled high against his chest.

There's a brief pause – Sam yawns widely and Will gets caught watching the way his face shifts and contorts as his muscles stretch for the first time. Then the room is silent once more. "This could get old quite quickly," he mutters, bemused, because everyone always told him that all babies do is scream and cry but no one ever warned him what to do when they were silent.

"Shouldn't you be screaming bloody murder or something?"

Sam - completely disinterested in the idea - bats his long eyelashes at his father endearingly and spends a few seconds sucking at his lips.

"You were named after my uncle, did I ever tell you that? He was a good man – more of a father than your actual grandfather ever was. If he were here he'd be banging down that door to come see you. Samuel Lucas McAvoy," Will whispers, awed.

It's unlike anything he ever imagined, holding Sam close in his arms.

Over the past few months he's spent countless nights imaging this moment, but never did he think it could feel like this – so wholly content and overwhelming and special all at the same time. Sam's eyes, when they're open, are bleary and unfocused but also bright and true, and Will finally understands what people mean when they feel the weight of someone else entirely upon them.

It's startlingly and horrible all at once but he doesn't want it to end.

"What are you doing?" comes a quiet, bleary voice and Will looks up at Mackenzie – blinking in exhaustion but also straining upwards to take a look at her son.

"Just explaining the facts of life; or something."

Mackenzie makes a face and chuckles, and then motions for Will to come towards her. "My turn?"

Will stands and then settles on the edge of the bed with Sam still in his arms and Mackenzie's head resting against his shoulder so that they're both gazing down at him, "What did you tell him?" she asks quietly, and Will shrugs lightly.

"I was telling him about how he came into existence. How you were obnoxiously stubborn about that damn message and force-fed me those cookies and then we were high and had sex –"

"Shut up," Mackenzie growls, interrupting him but unable to stop her smile.

It's a little bit like being drunk, Will thinks, sitting here with the woman he's been in love with for the better part of a decade, holding a child he never once thought would exist. It's almost poetic considering how Sam came into being.

"We didn't plan you Sam," Mackenzie tells the little boy instead, "I certainly never planned you. But I think we're going to be okay," she hums, and Will couldn't agree more.

The tiny infants drifted back off to sleep and his parents spend a few moments simply watching him, marveled by him, before Will glances at the woman against his arm and remembers why everything feels so damn good to begin with.

"Hey," he whispers, soft eyes on Mackenzie, "I love you, okay."

She tips her head back against his shoulder and with a weary, watery smile echoes, "Me too."


End file.
